


All That Remains

by Skyleaf19



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassin Legolas, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyleaf19/pseuds/Skyleaf19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five year-old Legolas is captured by orcs and taken to Dol Guldur, where he is given to an assassin to be trained. The Nazgûl underestimated their assassin's new-found hatred of the Enemy however. Their plan backfires when a deadly but good Legolas escapes, hiding from the kin who think him dead and killing orcs from the shadows...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: Taken**

 

_Third Age 2531. (480 years ago...)_

The forest was silent. Not a whisper of wind rustled the boughs of the sturdy branches above. Not a single insect buzzed or drifted between the bright flowers that grew at the bases of the trees. No birds sang sweet notes to the sky, filling the void with their song. No animals called to each other or rustled through the undergrowth. It was as if all of nature was unwilling to break the heavy silence that lay heavily on the forest. And so the darkening woods were silent.

Then, there was a scream.

The scream ripped through the silent air like a sharp knife cutting through flesh, savagely breaking the heavy silence. The terrible wail was worse than the sound of a dying animal, filled with uncomprehending pain and grief. The heartbreaking animal-like screams changed slowly, transforming into desperate words.

“Luineth! Luineth!” a voice sobbed. “Luineth, my love, please wake!”

In the middle of the forest was a battlefield. Elven and orc bodies were strewn across the path, with the slain corpses of horses mingling with those of their masters. Discarded swords and arrows peppered the ground and surrounding trees, left where they had fallen. A small group of five elves were huddled silently in the center of the massacre, standing in a circle around two fallen shapes. One was holding the other in a tight embrace, sobbing as he rocked her back and forth. The other, the one being held, was unmoving.

Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, sat beneath the silent trees, sobbing into the blood-covered silver hair of his wife. A bloody dagger was clutched in her right hand, the black blood on the blade contrasting sharply with the wound on her chest. Silver-blue eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, filled with pain and fear even in death. Luineth, Queen of Mirkwood, was dead.

Just that morning, Luineth had decided to take a ride out in the forest, Thranduil and their youngest at her side. Before the party could depart however, one of the King's advisers had intercepted him with an urgent letter that required his immediate attention. While Thranduil had been trying to gracefully excuse himself from the adviser's presence, Luineth had gone ahead, riding out with some guards into the forest. Thranduil had been able to escape the adviser five minutes later. And five minutes made all the difference. A simple ride outside the palace had turned into a fatal trap as the Queen and her guards were attacked by orcs out in the forest. Thranduil's party had arrived in time to see Luineth fall to an orc's blade. When Thranduil reached his wife, ignoring the orc who fled the moment he saw the King, she was already dead.

The King's Guards did not move or speak as their Lord whispered and pleaded with his wife to _wake up,_ to _come back to him_. They could see him shattering, weakening before their very eyes. They dared not interrupt, their own hearts breaking at the sight of their beloved Queen. They could not even find the will to bury or check their deceased comrades, overcome by the grief of their King. So they merely stood in a protective circle around him, faces blank and minds numb. If another group of orcs happened upon the elves, they would have found little fight in them.

The King's begging trailed into nothingness, replaced by wordless whimpers and sobs. Thranduil clung to his dead wife like one clinging to a lifeline, cheek resting on her bloody hair. He could feel her body cooling in his arms, the warmth fleeing with the life that had resided within it.

Finally, after almost a half hour of silence and numbness, Thranduil looked up. The King's blue eyes were wild, terror and grief warring for dominance within him. His pale lips moved in slow movements, the cause of his desperate break from mindless grief coming out in the form of a name.

“Legolas.” At the sound of the name, the warriors shifted, looking at their King. “Where's my son?” Thranduil croaked, looking around the bloody clearing. “Where is Legolas? WHERE IS HE?”

One by one, expressions of horror replacing the blank masks as they realized the reason for their King's distress. Legolas, the five year-old Prince and Thranduil's youngest child, had gone out riding with the Queen and her guards that fateful morning. And he was nowhere to be found. There was no small body among the slain elven warriors and hulking masses of dead orcs. Which only left one possibility. Thranduil snapped into action, the thoughts of his young son clearing his mind. For the moment anyway.

“Thimben, Aduial! Return to the castle and get our best trackers. You must follow the orcs' trail!”

The three named warriors hesitated, unwilling to leave their King with so little protection.

“Go!” Thranduil ordered and the warriors rode away at top speed. The King turned back to his wife, breathing harsh, and spoke to her softly, gently brushing her hair out of her face. “We'll find him. We'll find him, my love. They won't have him.”

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Many leagues away, near the edge of the Mirkwood forest, a horde of orcs ran swiftly through the forest, footsteps sounding like thunder in a storm. Around them, the trees grew steadily darker as they grew closer to their destination: Dol Guldur. The band of orcs moved at a steady, rhythmic pace, looking like an army of demons with their black skin and cruel yellow eyes. In the sea of black a tiny spot of pale gold and white could be seen.

Legolas, the youngest Prince of Mirkwood, was afraid. He had been out riding with his mother when the band of scary monsters had attacked their guards, killing three of them before the other elves could react. Legolas did not know how the orcs had sneaked up on the guards. His second big brother, Megilag, always said that the trees would warn the Wood Elves if any enemies were nearby. Yet the guards had been taken completely by surprise. Legolas remembered his mother covering his eyes as screams ripped through the air around them.

“Run, my Queen!” one of the guards had shouted before being cut down.

And so Luineth had spurred their horse, only to have the white stallion shot down by a black arrow. Legolas and the Queen had been thrown free of the falling horse, Luineth rising to her feet immediately in defense as the orcs— so many orcs— charged them. The orcs had quickly overwhelmed her— she was no warrior—, pushing easily past the Queen's defense and grabbing Legolas. The Prince had screamed for his mother as rough hands pulled him out of safety, whisking him away from the battle faster than he could blink. Rushed away by the eager orcs, he did not see his mother fall.

Legolas had screamed for hours, beating the orc's shoulder with tiny fists and getting nothing but a harsh shake for his efforts. If Legolas was older he would have wondered why the orcs did not threaten him for making noise. Instead, they merely focused on running, caring more about putting distance between them and the elves than the quietness of their captive. Eventually the Prince quieted, going limp over his captor's shoulder as the hours passed.

Legolas did not know what to do. His older brothers and Bereneth had told him stories about their encounters with orcs, stories that scared Legolas and made Nana scold them. orcs were evil, mean creatures, Legolas knew, ones who liked to kill and hurt elves. The young Prince was afraid of what the orcs wanted with him, especially since his family would always look scared and sad whenever he asked what happened to elves that orcs captured. He just knew that they never came back.

_Ada will come after me when Nana tells him what happened._ Legolas thought. _So will Aglar and Hannel and Megilag and Barhad and Bereneth and Fael. They'll rescue me._

Yet as the hours went on and no help came, the young elfling grew worried. The trees around him were steadily growing darker, their angry murmurs reaching his young ears and making him shiver. The trees did not like him. He did not know why they hissed and spat at him but they did, cringing away from his inner light. Nervous among their anger, Legolas tried to shrink in on himself, which was impossible while hanging over an orc's shoulder.

“Stop squirming, tree-rat!” the orc carrying him snarled, making the Prince freeze instantly.

He managed to stay perfectly still for a couple minutes, but remaining like that quickly grew difficult. Legolas wiggled in an attempt to get more comfortable.

“I said keep still!” the orc snapped, giving the elfling a harsh shake.

Legolas gave a surprised yelp as his chin slammed into the orc's armor. Instantly, the orc's arm was grabbed by another, a threatening growl emerging from his throat.

“Careful with that. The Witch-King wants him unharmed.” the second orc growled, cuffing the first with an armored fist.

The orc carrying Legolas hissed in pain, giving the other a hate-filled glare. “The little twit was trying to break free! I was just discouraging him.”

The second orc looked unconvinced. “Of course you were.” he sneered. “I didn't know you were so incompetent that you can't keep hold of a tiny tree-rat!”

The offended orc gave an enraged snarl and lunged for the second, fist connecting with the other's chin. Legolas gave a shriek as the second orc retaliated, bowling his carrier over and sending all three of them to the ground. The Elf Prince was thrown free of the tussling orcs, cringing as the others continued to march around him and a large, booted foot barely missed his head. Before he could be trampled, the other orcs halted, focusing on the fight. Shouts of encouragement for the two brawlers rippled through the ranks, until the entire group was calling bets on the winner.

Legolas quickly realized that no attention was on him. Careful to keep low to the ground and not touch anyone he passed, the small Prince scurried through the legs of the surrounding orcs. None noticed him as he hurried through their ranks as fast as he dared. As shouts, grunts, and screams came from the two fighters, the orcs grew even more frenzied, crazed by blood-lust. Legolas whimpered and gasped as spear-butts slammed down in front of him and large feet stomped in an erratic rhythm. Miraculously, he made it to the edge of the mass, taking a single step out of the circle of orcs braying for blood. A large hand grabbed his hair, forcing a scream of pain from the elfling.

“Where do you think you're going?” the orc who held him growled. He turned angry yellow eyes on the crowd of spectators and bellowed. “At attention you stinking half-wits!”

The orcs flinched or jumped, attention swiftly diverted, and scurried back into formation, purposely forming up around the Prince and his captor. Form Legolas's height, it seemed like the giant orcs were blocking out the sun with their dark skin and armor. The Prince's heart sank as his chance at freedom was literally blocked off. The orc that held him strode forward with long strides, ignoring the elfling's pained gasps as he struggled to keep pace so that his hair would not be pulled. The orc released him, turning his attention to the two brawling orcs that stood rigidly at attention. Without a word of warning the orc— the Captain of the horde— punched them both in the gut. Both orcs bent over double, wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Bloody idiots!” the orc Captain snarled. “Your little scuffle almost let the tree-rat get away!”

“But he was—” the orc who had been carrying Legolas began.

The Captain slapped his subordinate across the face, two of the lackey's yellowed teeth ripping free of his gums. The orc spat the teeth on the ground but did not speak again.

“Let's get moving!” the orc Captain shouted, planning to punish the two more thoroughly later. “The adult tree-rats will be here soon.”

He turned to Legolas but the elfling stepped back, wondering if he could stall for time. Just long enough for his father or the warriors to get there. The little Prince did not know that the orc Captain had left several false trails behind him, good enough to confuse any trackers of Mirkwood. By the time the warriors fought off the spiders they would encounter and circled back to find the real trail, the orcs would be long gone.

“My Nana will tell my Ada you took me and he'll come rescue me.” Legolas said bravely, unaware that no help would be coming any time soon.

Around him, the orcs laughed. Legolas looked at them all in confusion. The large orc leaned down in front of him, making the elfling recoil from his horrid breath.

“Your mother's dead, tree-rat.” the orc captain sneered.

Legolas's mouth snapped shut and he stared at the orc mutely. Although he did not fully understand death, he knew what it was. When he was the human equivalent of a three year-old, the young Prince had owned a pet rabbit named Floppy. One day, the curious bunny had escaped the palace into the stables, and got trampled by a startled horse. Legolas had found the animal and gone running into the palace, bursting into tears as he begged the first person he met— Hannel— to make Floppy better. Hannel had gently taken the dead rabbit from her brother and cradled in her arms, quietly explaining that Floppy had been badly injured, so injured that his spirit had moved on to eternal rest. That was the first time the Prince had heard of death.

Legolas did not fully understand what “death” meant, but he did know that the person person who had died was not coming back. In other words, the orc had taken his mother away. The elfling stared unblinkingly at the orc with eyes that seemed to age rapidly, holding the cold anger of a much older and more vengeful elf. The orc froze as the silver-blue eyes pierced him, pinning him in place with an ancient power.

“I will kill you for hurting my Nana.” the Prince vowed quietly, in a voice that matched his too-old eyes.

The orc captain flinched and retreated to the front of the group, eager to get away from those terrifying eyes. Even as he was picked up and thrown over a shoulder once more, Legolas's gaze followed the orc, marking him in his mind. He would remember this conversation. He would remember the orc. And one day, the orc would pay for taking away his mother. The orc would pay with his life.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Thranduil sat in his throne room, shoulders hunched and head down with his golden hair falling into his face. His crown was crooked on his head and his skin was pale, eyes red-rimmed from tears and stress. The two guards standing on the inside of the doors shifted uncomfortably, never before having seen their King look so defeated. Thranduil did not bother trying to pretend to be strong and unmoved by his losses. Luineth's death and Legolas's current missing status had taken it's toll on the King. He was more vulnerable now than he had ever been, as if a breath of wind would make him shatter. Thranduil, who was always the image of confidence and strength, was a mere shadow of his former self, lost deep in his thoughts.

His grief for his wife was a stain upon his soul, but his fear for his lost son was what overwhelmed the King, taking away his breath and will. Thranduil wanted nothing more than to be with the patrol— led by his eldest son, Aglar— that was searching for Legolas, but knew he would only hinder the search rather than help. He could feel the numbness of grief creeping up on him but refused to fall into it. He had to remain alert. He had to know his youngest son was all right before he crumbled.

The rest of his family was nowhere to be found. Thranduil was not sure whether he should be grateful or upset. Aglar was with the patrol searching for his youngest sibling. His two daughters and third son— the even-tempered Hannel, fiery Bereneth, and her calm twin Barhad— were all in Lothlorien. The twins were there visiting Hannel and her husband, as they did every year since the eldest sister had decided to live in her husband's realm. The rest of Thranduil's children— stern Megilag and mischievous Fael— were in Rivendell visiting Elrond's sons.

Normally Thranduil's thoughts would be filled with laughter as he imagined what pranks Fael and the devious twins would play on poor Glorfindel and Erestor, but now all his thoughts were dark with fear and grief. How would his children react when the messengers arrived with the news of their mother's death? Thranduil had not the heart to tell them of Legolas's capture.

_By the time they arrive in Mirkwood, little Greenleaf will be home,_ the father thought determinedly, forcing himself to believe his thoughts. He had to believe his youngest would be returned home, safe and sound. He _had_ to.

Legolas had been an unexpected surprise for the Royal Family of Mirkwood. It had been over two thousand years since the birth of their sixth child, Fael. Both Thranduil and Luineth were overjoyed when they discovered they would be adding one more member to the family. The Palace had gotten quieter since their first six children had grown into adults, all heading out into the world. They all still lived in the palace of course, but the noticeable absence of an elfling's laughter had saddened the parents' hearts.

The youngest Prince's birth had not been an easy one. Luineth had gone into labor more than a month early, and the healer's had feared the baby would not survive. But he had, and ten hours later Thranduil found himself holding a tiny elfling with a tuft of blonde fuzz on his head. It was a blonde so pale it looked almost silver or white, a unique color not only among the Royal family but among all Silvan Elves as well. The rest of Legolas's siblings had gotten their parent's hair, be it Thranduil's gold or Luineth's silver locks.

Legolas had looked so delicate and frail in his large hands. For the first time since the birth of Aglar, the Elvenking had felt that he was going to drop or break the tiny baby that relied so much on him. But then the babe's eyes had fluttered open exposing Thranduil to orbs of innocent silver-blue. Legolas was the only child to inherit his mother's unique silver-blue eyes. Looking back, Thranduil remembered the comfort he had felt when he gazed into the curious eyes of his youngest child.

“You are destined for great things, little one.” he remembered saying. “My little Greenleaf.”

And so the King and Queen had named him Legolas, after the green leaves that flourished out in the spring. But now the green leaves of spring had been captured by the darkest of shadows. Thranduil shuddered once, shivering the sudden cold that came from within his heart.

The creak of a moving hinge was like a cannon blast in the silence. The King's head snapped up and he rose to his feet, hope entering his gaze as his eldest son entered the room. Aglar closed the door firmly behind him before turning to face his father. Thranduil's sharp eyes instantly spotted the bloody strip of cloth on his son's forearm.

“What happened?” he asked his eldest, urgently striding forward to inspect the wound.

Aglar did not resist as his father as the King took his arm, gently touching the area next to the small gash. “Spider attack. The orcs left a false trail into a Spider nest. No one was killed, but Heled was poisoned. The healers gave him the antidote though so he'll be all right.” The Crown Prince avoided his father's intense blue eyes, unable to look him in the face and give him the news. “We circled back and tracked the orcs as far South as we dared, but the trail led into the Shadowed part of Mirkwood. The trees attacked Glamor and blocked the way so... we had to turn back. But the path we were following... I... I believe they have taken Legolas to Dol Guldur.” Aglar choked on the words he uttered, feeling as if he were giving his little brother a death sentence. The fortress of Dol Guldur was currently housing the Nazgûl, including the dreaded Witch-King. If Legolas had indeed been taken to the dreaded fortress, it practically _was_ a death sentence. Few elves went into Dol Guldur. None came out.

The King's face crumpled and he turned away from his son, tears breaking free as he brought a shaking hand to cover his eyes. “What do they want with him?” Thranduil whispered, anguished. “Will they torture him until he becomes one of them? Will they kill him? Why? Why did they take my son?! Valar have mercy, he's just a child! My _youngest child_...”

Aglar strode forward, hugging his father as his own grief and self-disappointment broke his emotionless mask. Thranduil's knees buckled and he sank to the ground, his son falling with him to their knees. The guards shut their eyes as their King and his Heir cried, their grief making the stone walls of the palace seem even colder.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Ciaran, Man of the North watched expressionlessly with cold hazel eyes as the band of orcs marched into Dol Guldur. While many men would have left the room or shied away at the sight of the monsters, the Dunedain did not move from the spot in which he stood, glaring at the orcs as they halted in front of him. Beside him stood a tall, black-cloaked figure which emitted a feeling of malice that could send ice into the hearts of the bravest souls. Ciaran was unaffected by the Witch-King's evil aura, ignoring like a person who was not an animal-lover ignored their friend's dog. He was not afraid of the Witch-King. Ciaran was not afraid of anything. Not anymore.

Apathy and anger were the emotions most commonly found in the man, nothing else. This was an excellent mindset for a man of his profession. It would not do for an assassin to falter after all. The man was a unique one among the inhabitants of Dol Guldur, both because of his profession and his mix of powerlessness and power. He was a prisoner yet he was not, only remaining in the Hill of Sorcery because he felt like it at the current time.

Ciaran was a wild card, not allied with the Enemy of the Free People but not aligning himself with the Free People either. He drifted, on neither side and both, depending on which side required his skills that week. Ciaran had no qualms about working for a party one day and killing them the next. He used to have morals and guidelines to his shadowy profession... but not anymore. He was no longer the man he had been before The Incident.

Needless to say, Ciaran had been perfectly capable of defeating the orcs that the Nazgûl had sent to retrieve him, he just had not felt like it. Ciaran had been an assassin without a mission, wandering from place to place and finding no work or content anywhere. He was a neutral party, had been ever since The Incident. The Incident that had hardened his heart more than any training could. Some who knew of him called him the Beserker, a man who could kill hundreds in mere seconds. Others named him the Eternal Avenger, the man who would never find peace until he died. In the dark parts of the world he was known as the Touch of Death, the assassin who could kill a man just by brushing past him and leave no trace. Ciaran was a dangerous man indeed. Without loyalty, without love, and without morals...

...or at least, that was who he was right now.

The assassin shifted slightly on his feet, watching the orcs walk by, a speck of light among the black shapes catching his eye. A single brown eyebrow rose as Ciaran spotted the source of the light. How had the orcs captured an elfling?

The orc Captain strutted forward, arrogant and proud, before bowing to the Witch-King. “My Lord, we brought what you asked for. An elfling, alive and unspoiled.”

Another orc stepped forward, dropping the elfling at the Witch-King's feet. The pale-haired boy flinched as he stared up at the menacing Ringwraith. Then his chin jerked up, and he stared defiantly at the Nazgûl with determined silver-blue eyes.

“What is your name?” the Witch-King asked in his deep, dark voice.

The child remained silent. His orc kidnappers answered for him. “He is Legolas Thranduilion, the youngest Prince of Mirkwood.” the orc Captain said.

“A Prince of Mirkwood?” the Witch-King murmured. “Excellent.” Ciaran had a feeling that if he could see the face beneath the hood, the Ringwraith would be smiling. “Ciaran of the North.” the Nazgûl King said suddenly, making everyone except the assassin and the elfling jump. “Do you know why you're here?”

Ciaran stared into the black abyss beneath the Ringwraith's hood, unaffected by the fire-like eyes that glowed like a demon's from within the shadow, and shrugged carelessly. The Witch-King glided forward, walking slowly around Legolas like a wolf stalking a rabbit.

“This is why you are here, assassin. The Dark Lord Sauron has a job for you. He wants you to pass on your skills to this little elfling here.”

Ciaran kept his surprise from showing on his face. “Why?” he asked.

“Lord Sauron has plenty of orcs and men to take out the armies of his enemies,” the Witch-King said. “What he needs now is a special warrior— an assassin— to kill those who are not at the front lines of war. The slaying of Kings, Lords, and leaders is more delicate than what orcs and goblins are capable of. Such a profession requires... finesse. The Dark Lord has no desire to retrain assassins every time his chosen one dies, and so the answer is obvious. No race is more deadly than the elves, and even their children can be molded.” The Witch-King stopped his circling, turning to stare at Ciaran. “I do not want this elfling tortured, mutilated, or beaten into submission. That is not what Lord Sauron demands. We need an assassin, quick with his mind and quicker with a blade, loyal to none but his employer. You will teach him your skills.”

With these words the Witch-King grabbed the Prince by the back of his tunic, throwing him at Ciaran. The assassin deftly caught the child, setting him upright before looking up at the King of the Nazgûl.

“Very well.” he said simply. He turned to look at Legolas. “Come.”

With that, he walked into the depths of the fortress, and paused just inside the doorway. The elfling hesitated a moment, glancing nervously at the Witch-King before deciding he would take his chances with the strange man and hurrying after the assassin. Elf Prince and Assassin walked side by side in silence, Legolas glancing curiously at Ciaran from time to time, looking up at the assassin with wide, innocent eyes. Such innocent eyes, eyes that reminded him of—

Ciaran squashed the grief before it could fully form, his expression never changing. He did not deserve to feel grief. His hands were covered in too much blood, and his heart was too hard for such emotions. Emotions were weaknesses. Weaknesses that could be exploited. It was that weakness, that emotion, that had caused _them_ to be— that caused The Incident. He _did not_ deserve emotion.

So why did he have to keep reminding himself that?

Ciaran did not outwardly acknowledge the Prince's curiosity, keeping his expression stoic and cold. He halted in front of the room that the orcs had given him— a room he now knew was going to be his home for quite a while— and opened the door. The “room” was in fact four rooms, leading out to a personal training area outside. It was only now that Ciaran understood the significance of the location of the room, or perhaps the proper word would be “apartment”. The apartment consisted of two bedrooms, a living area, and study, only separated by thick stone-block walls.

“This is your new home, Prince.” Ciaran said bluntly. “Get used to it.”

Legolas moved cautiously into the apartment, glancing around before turning back to the assassin. “I won't be here long.” he said in a confident voice. “My Ada will come rescue.”

Ciaran barely stifled a scoff. With the Witch-King and Nazgûl present, plus the thousands of orcs inside the fortress, it would take the combined might of Mirkwood, Lothlorien, _and_ Rivendell to even stand a chance in a rescue attempt. “This is your home now. And I wouldn't mention your father here. There's no need to anger the orcs. And angry orcs hurt people.”

The Prince quieted, glancing nervously out the door before shuffling closer to Ciaran. “You won't let the orcs hurt me.” he said quietly.

Ciaran's eyebrow inched upward at his open naivety. “Why not?”

The elfling looked up at him and Ciaran was once again caught in the innocence of those silver-blue eyes. “You will protect me because you are not a bad man.” His head tipped slightly, as if he were listening to voices only he could hear. “You are very sad, but you are not a bad man.”

Ciaran mentally cursed the elfling for making him so unsettled, and himself for letting him. Unwanted memories and emotions were rushing through a body he had once thought incapable of producing them. It was the eyes, he decided. The innocent, childish, pure eyes that reminded the assassin so much of _him_ and _her_. He must be weaker than he thought for a child to shatter him so easily.

“Don't count on that, Prince.” the assassin told the elfling, before opening the door to the smaller bedroom “This is your room. Go to bed. We start your training tomorrow.”

He expected protests or exclamations about being rescued tomorrow, but none came. The tiny elfling merely nodded, taking off his dirty shoes and climbing into the bed with his day clothes on. Ciaran would have to ask for proper clothes for the child tomorrow. Before the confused assassin could retreat, Legolas's small voice sounded out of the dark depths of the room. “What's your name, Mister?”

The assassin paused in the doorway. What should the boy call him? Master? Teacher? Mentor? “I am Ciaran.” The words slipped out before he could stop them and he blinked, surprised at himself.

“Nice to meet you...” the Prince mumbled, and was immediately asleep, leaving a confused assassin to retreat to his own room.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

_The moment Ciaran's surroundings came into focus, the assassin knew he was dreaming. His surroundings were terribly, horribly familiar, and yet he always knew that they would appear the moment he shut his eyes. He had this dream almost every night, ever since the Incident. The dream was The Incident, after all. And the dream— the memory— always started the same way. Beneath the shining sun stood a man and a woman on a porch._

“ _I can't do this anymore,” Eithne, his wife— the one woman he ever truly loved— said. Her red hair was pulled back into a loose bun, her green eyes flashing with emotions. She was wearing the blue dress he had given her for her birthday, a small spattering of flour on the skirt from her earlier attempts at baking._

_Ciaran could not stop the words that came from himself next, unable to prevent the events before him from taking place. “Eithne—”_

“ _You said you were going to stop,” the red-haired woman whispered, voice cracking. “You said you were going to get an honest job.”_

_His dream/memory self looked at the ground, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “I know, darling and I'm sorry. Being an assassin is a part of who I am. It's all that I'm good at.”_

“ _You could use your medical knowledge to become a healer—”_

“ _I only know some healing herbs and most of the pressure points I use are harmful or deadly.”_

“ _You could do woodwork or become a blacksmith—”_

“ _But I will never be more than average.”_

_And then his wife exploded, screaming at him with her eyes glowing like emerald flames. “Is that what it is? You want to be special? You think that you're only good at killing?”_

_His memory/dream self avoided her accusing gaze, looking out over the lush fields that surrounded their home. His voice was soft and heartbroken when he spoke again. “I am special. I was trained from childhood to kill the enemies of my father and older brother. While other children were outside playing I was throwing knives at a target. I want to be a normal farmer or baker or blacksmith for you and Brian, Eithne, but I cannot deny who I am any more than I can stop the moon from rising.”_

_She was quiet for the longest time, piercing eyes never leaving his face. It was those eyes that had captivated him the first time they had met. Her green eyes had been filled with such wonder and innocence that he had felt moved by them, like a shadow reaching for the light. The naivety had long-since vanished from Eithne's eyes, but was now in the bright blue eyes of their son, Brian. Brian, who had just turned five years old. Finally, his wife spoke._

“ _Leave.”_

_The one word echoed in Ciaran's mind, and the oak door had been shut before the single dreadful word had fully registered. Memory/dream Ciaran stared at the closed door, speechless, for a long five minutes._

_Then he walked away._

_Every single day, in the ten years since The Incident, Ciaran wished he had not left that front porch. He wished he had not gone to the nearest tavern, drinking for all he was worth. He wished he had not staggered home at one in the morning, almost too intoxicated to see straight. If he had not left, if he had not returned so late, then maybe he would have arrived in time to stop his wife and child from being murdered._

_As it was, Ciaran could not change the events in his dream any more than he could change the events of the past. The assassin was grateful that the fuzziness and headache he had received from drinking did not transfer into his dreams. At the same time, he wished it did. Every time he had the dream, Ciaran was able to see the scene in perfect clarity, unlike what had happened in real life. And every time he had the dream/memory, he noticed another little detail, thought about the choices he could have made, tried to imagine the exact events of his family's deaths until his stomach clenched. Now, Ciaran lived for the extra noticed details in the mystery that had never been solved, hoping that one day he would discover who had murdered his wife and son. In the ten straight years of dreaming/remembering The Incident, no such revelation had come forth._

_Until tonight._

_Ciaran **saw him**._

_His dream/memory self was stumbling towards the front porch, not paying attention to the world around him when he— the Ciaran of the present— **saw** **him** disappearing into the forest behind the house. **He** was not a Man as Ciaran had expected. **He** was not an Elf as the assassin had thought in his darkest moments. **He** was not a Dwarf as the man had mused when drunk. **He** was not of the race of any of the Free People of Middle-earth._

_**He** was an orc._

_An icy chill trickled down Ciaran's spine as he watched the creature vanish, blending with the shadows. The creature who had killed his family, a member of the race that he had worked for many times after the Incident without a second thought, who he was working for_ _**right now** _ _. A twig snapped behind him and he twisted, stiffening as he spotted Legolas. Legolas? What was he doing in the dream? The elfling looked up at him with innocent silver-blue eyes, so different yet so similar to Brian's bright blue, and Eithne's fiery green._

_As Ciaran watched the silver-blue eyes hardened, the light within them going out. Suddenly Legolas looked dangerous, like a deadly predator ready to strike. Ciaran felt an icy chill just by looking at him, the feeling of danger making his heart pound in his chest. A glint of metal caught the man's eye and he looked down, face paling with horror as he saw the bloody knife in the elfling's hand._

“ _So will you do it?” a voice asked from behind him._

_Ciaran whipped around to find Eithne standing behind him, blood from her chest wound dried on her blue dress. Beside her stood Brian, brown-haired, blue-eyed Brian, who stared at his father with hatred in his eyes._

“ _Will you do what those monsters want?” Eithne asked in a cold, accusing tone._

_Ciaran turned back to look at Legolas and his heart froze as he saw not the young elfling, but a small brown-haired boy with cold hazel eyes. A boy who was covered in blood but did not care. A monster to his core._

“ _Will you turn him into a killer...” Eithne whispered coldly in his ear. “... just like you?”_

Ciaran snapped awake, eyes opening to the sight of dark stone above him. He did not breath harshly and he was not covered in perspiration like some are wont to do when waking from nightmares. Instead he was silent, and absolutely still, staring blankly at the ceiling he could barely see.

As silent as a shadow he stood, exiting his room on soft steps and entering the one adjacent to his. The Elf Prince was fast asleep, eyes open and glassy with his breathing soft and even. Ciaran stood next to the bed for a moment before sitting on the mattress's edge, trying to collect his thoughts. He could not deny many things this night. One was that he was employed by the race that had murdered his wife and son. Another was that they expected him to turn this little elfling into a cold-blooded killer. And finally... Ciaran realized he did not want to.

So now what?

The assassin knew he could easily escape Dol Guldur by himself. He could not with an elfling in tow. Firstly, the Prince's glow was a beacon in the dark fortress. Secondly, the Witch-King would be able to sense him no matter how well-hidden he was. In other words, Ciaran knew that escape was not an option, for him or the Prince. He could not leave the boy here alone, after all. Not now that he was so reminded of Brian.

And yet he had no choice but to train the innocent child. If he refused, the Witch-King would find another to turn Legolas into Sauron's Assassin. Ciaran would not allow that to happen. So what could he do?

Legolas shifted and mumbled in his sleep, sticking a thumb into his mouth. Lips twitching— Brian used to do that too— Ciaran gently took the appendage out of the elfling's mouth, receiving no protests or moves to place the thumb back where it had been. Legolas would _never_ work for those monsters— the monsters that killed his family— not while he drew breath. The assassin gently brushed a hand over the long pale locks, smiling softly as the elfling mumbled in response. Ciaran had to save him, to keep the young one whole and good. Eithne would have wanted him too. But how?

Ciaran sat with the sleeping elfling for the longest time, trying to figure out a way to prevent the Witch-King from getting his assassin. Slowly, an idea formed in the man's mind and he grinned, a grin that was a complex mix of triumphant and pained.

_Yes, I will train this child to be an assassin,_ he decided. _But I will not train him for what you wish, vile creatures. He will not become one of your merciless killers. I will teach him compassion, morals, justice, and love. I will teach him the wonders of Middle-earth and why it is worth fighting for... even though I did not. Legolas will not work for the Enemy, he will be a warrior of the Free People of Middle-earth. I will teach him how to kill_ _ **orcs**_ _. I will teach him how to fight_ _ **Dark**_ _Sorcery. I will teach him how shield his mind and soul from e_ _vil, so that it may never corrupt him._ _I will teach him everything you want me to, but it will not be for use against the forces of Good. He will use them against_ _ **you**_ _. And he_ _ **will destroy you all**_ _. Prepare yourselves, servants of the Shadow. Your doom is coming!_


	2. In the Depths of Dol Guldur

**Chapter One: In the Depths of Dol Guldur**

_Third Age 2611. (400 years ago...)_

Dol Guldur. The Hill of Sorcery. A fortress of darkness and evil, it stood tall in the Southern section of the forest once known as Greenwood the Great, now called Mirkwood. The structure was a beacon for all kinds of evil, from the Nazgûl that resided there to the orcs, goblins, and cruel men that were drawn to the black towers of the fortress. For hundreds of years Dol Guldur emitted it's malice into the surrounding forest, corrupting the once-green trees until they blackened with anger and hatred, lashing out against the light. It was said that the fortress then had this affect on all things that resided within it, dooming them to evil. The Witch-King's presence only added to the stronghold's might. Few could resist the corruption, and even fewer could make themselves immune. And yet, deep in Dol Guldur's dark halls, two beings were indeed immune to their home's power.

Legolas sat on the railing of a balcony that overlooked the forest, one leg drawn up to his chest while the other swung freely in the air. Long pale blonde hair cascaded to his mid-back, left loose except for the two braids that kept stragglers away from his face. Normally, an elf such as himself would be attacked and killed on sight by all of the Evil in Dol Guldur. However, Legolas was a special case. Because while he had the gracefulness, looks, and ears of an elf, Legolas did not glow like all other elves did. Without his natural glow, Legolas could easily pass for a man as long as he covered his ear-tips. He was a very fair and beautiful “man” of course, but still a man to the casual observer.

Ciaran had taught Legolas how to suppress his inner light early on. It was necessary for the young elf's survival in Dol Guldur. Orcs and other dark creatures all had a profound hatred for elves, not because of their beauty or grace, but because of their natural glow. The glow— a beacon of light in the darkest places— angered and disgusted the orcs in particular, reminding them of what they once were. Orcs did not like to be reminded that they were once elves. And so they attacked all elves with a fierce and savage blood-lust. Luckily, Legolas was able to suppress his inner light mere days after entering Dol Guldur, so the orcs generally left him alone. At least, they did not try to tear him apart as an elfling.

As a result, suppressing his glow had become second nature to Legolas. It put no strain on his mind, body, or spirit, and was a helpful tool when sneaking around in dark shadows. The only side effect that came with this technique was intriguing but harmless. For an unknown reason, Legolas's eyes turned a bright violet— and stayed that way— whenever his inner light was suppressed. Legolas had been suppressing his glow nonstop for the past eighty years of his life, and would have forgotten that his eyes were naturally silver-blue if not for Ciaran reminding him.

Ciaran had become a mix of teacher, friend, and father-figure for the young elf. Legolas did not remember his birth father, or anything from his life before being captured by the orcs and taken here. Occasionally, he would get a brief flash of blurred memories as he slept, but other than that, nothing. He did not know why the memories had faded— he had never received any head injuries in his training with Ciaran— but had a feeling that the darkness of Dol Guldur had something to do with it. Yet that same power that had been unable to corrupt him or Ciaran. Along with the expected training to become a warrior and assassin, Ciaran had taught Legolas four important lessons, ones he knew were imperative in the deception against the Nazgûl:

“ _Harden your heart so you never falter.”_

“ _Shield your soul so it cannot be corrupted.”_

“ _Close off your mind so none can invade it.”_

“ _Mask your emotions so they cannot be used against you.”_

To the Nazgûl and orcs of Dol Guldur, Legolas and Ciaran were loyal servants of Sauron. In reality, the two were plotting their enemies' dooms. Along with learning how to kill a man in a hundred different ways, Legolas learned the quickest and most efficient way to slay orcs and goblins. When learning how to hide from Light Magic and the Magic of the Elves, Legolas was given lessons on how to resist Black Magic in it's darkest forms. Legolas learned curses in Black Speech and words of healing in Sindarin and Quenyan, and was fluent in many of the languages of the different species of Middle-earth.

Legolas was deadly to both sides in the war for Middle-earth, and could easily have been a rogue element, shifting from side to side like Ciaran had for many years. Yet it had been the assassin's teachings and shielding of the young elf from Evil's influence, and one memory that would keep Legolas in the fight for Good forever. 

The only memory he had from his past was that of an orc taunting him about his mother's death.

The elf wanted nothing more than to stab the Orc Captain, Grihtz, through the heart every time he saw him, but knew that he could not. The Enemy believed that Legolas was completely loyal to Sauron, and that Ciaran was a neutral element but swung their way. Deception was the two's best friend in Dol Guldur, and it would not do for the Enemy to be alerted that their two “loyal” assassins were plotting against them. Not while the two were trapped.

The Witch-King's power and control over the fortress was too much for Legolas and Ciaran to escape without a confrontation with the Ringwraiths. Despite their training and skill, even they stood no chance against all nine of the Nazgûl, especially in Dol Guldur. The Black Magic powered by the Ringwraiths' presences— specifically the Witch-King's— was too potent in the fortress for them to overcome. If they tried to fight or escape, their movements would be slowed and their wills weakened by the Witch-King. It was inevitable in Dol Guldur. 

While immune to corruption, the two were not infallible against such compressed Dark energy. Eighty years of planning would be wasted if they tried to leave while the Witch-King was inside the fortress. Like a person who knew there was a bug crawling on their skin, the Witch-King was ever-aware of Legolas and Ciaran's movements within the fortress. He did not know what they were doing, but he knew where they were. And so the two assassins patiently waited. The longer they did nothing to openly oppose the Nazgûl or orcs, the more lax the Enemy became. 

There had been a few near-misses when Legolas was younger, though. The elfling's first kill had been a man who worked for the Shadow, when Legolas was the equivalent of a human seven year-old. He had barely managed to hold back his emotions until he and Ciaran had returned to their rooms in the fortress. There, the elder assassin had held the elfling as he sobbed for the life he had taken. To this day, Legolas still felt grief whenever he took the life of a man, and even then the life would be taken only in self-defense. 

For orcs and goblins, he had no such qualms. The elf could easily kill them without being provoked. This difference in reaction was a relief to Ciaran, who had worried that his apprentice would become completely detached when he killed. Legolas's grief saddened yet warmed the older assassin's heart, telling him that the young compassionate elfling still resided in the warrior's body. The goodness was well-hidden, but it _did_ exist. And that was all that mattered.

Legolas continued to watch the trees, longing to go outside of the fortress. It was not a desire to be beneath the trees so much as a simple wish to not have stone around him. He was not completely without nature, of course. As an elf, he could not survive within the stone fortress forever. Years ago, Ciaran managed to convince the orcs to plant a single oak tree in the two assassins' training grounds. It was a shadowed tree, but still a tree nonetheless.

That tree was enough for Legolas to connect with, and learn it's languages along with the language of it's light kin. Through this tree, he could vaguely converse with the shadowed trees outside of Dol Guldur, even reaching the light trees that lived further away if he concentrated. At first the elf— at that time an elfling— did not know why the shadowed trees spoke to and understood him, accepting him unlike his kin, but suspected that it had something to do with his suppressed glow.

He asked his oak tree about their acceptance once, and received a surprising answer. To the trees, Legolas's aura was not blinding and painful like the auras of other elves. It was pleasantly muted, not overwhelming the shadowed trees senses. The trees did not feel pain at his touch. Instead, when he touched them, they felt warm, vaguely remembering an echo of what they once were.

Light. Joyful. Green. Lively. Beautiful.

The touch of the Eldar once brought this forgotten joy to the trees. Now, all it brought was pain. The elves' touch burned as painful as fire, too light and warm for the shadowed trees. Their touch hurt, and pain made the trees angry. It made them forget their love for the elves. It made them want the source of their pain _gone_. But this was not true for Legolas, the elf that was not too bright for their darkness, but not too shadowed for their remnants of life.

The shadowed trees called him Daelas. Shadow Leaf.

Legolas was not sure how he felt about the name. His worst fear was that he truly was doomed to the shadows, that he was not quite an elf because of his abilities and skills. In all the years of learning History from Ciaran, Legolas had never heard of an Elven Assassin, or an elf who could talk with shadowed trees and suppress his inner light. Elves were beings of purity and light, were they not? So what was he?

Legolas half-heard, half-sensed the orc coming up behind him but did not turn, his posture still calm and relaxed. The orc halted fifteen feet behind the elf, and he could hear the dark soldier shifting from foot to foot. The assassin mentally smirked, keeping all expression off his face. When he was an elfling, the orcs left him alone because of his suppressed glow, the Witch-King's orders, and Ciaran's killing sprees if they so much as looked at his apprentice the wrong way. Now, the residents of Dol Guldur tended to avoid him for different reasons: fear and survival. 

If an orc or goblin attacked Ciaran or Legolas, the two were free to kill them in retaliation. The Witch-King did not care what happened to his lowest grunts, and if they were stupid enough to antagonize the assassins, they were too stupid to live. The Lord of the Nazgûl was unaware how much the two assassins used this to their advantage, or how many orcs they actually killed. Orcs died all the time in Dol Guldur, stabbed in the back by their allies. Legolas and Ciaran could kill without leaving a trace, or in a way that made it appear that a Race other than their own committed the act. And they had done just that, many, many times.

“Yes?” Legolas asked the orc in a flat, cool voice.

The orc jumped, backing up a step. “The Witch-King requests your presence.” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. He looked as if a dropped pin would make him flee.

Legolas looked at him with his unnerving violet eyes, the orc swiftly caught in the chaotic depths of his gaze. It was well-known that some elves could capture a being with the hidden wisdom and power shown through their eyes, an ability that some ignorant mortals called magic. In reality, this “power” was nothing more than the mortal's reaction and surprise. Elves that were thousands of years old looked no older than thirty, and yet their eyes could show ancientness beyond mortal comprehension. It was this that made many mortals freeze under the gaze of the Eldar. 

Legolas's glowing violet eyes amplified the affect, so it was a little more effective than the norm. Through his eyes, many could see wisdom, but also danger and wildness. His eyes could promise death, inspire fear, and cause the bravest man to falter. All because of their unnatural shade, the impossible hue of violet no Race of Middle-earth possessed.

The elf let the orc sweat a little beneath his gaze before he turned back to the window. “Your message is noted. Leave.”

He spoke purposely, in a cold, condescending voice, waiting for the orc to react. Orcs were proud creatures, quick to anger if insulted. Angry orcs did not think, which was all Legolas needed. Sure enough, the orc snapped, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him into the air. “Why you little—” He paused, yellow eyes widening as he realized _who_ he had just attacked. Unfortunately for him, it was already too late.

Legolas remained calm despite his lack of air. Moving his right hand, he gently pressed a spot on the grunt's forearm. The orc yelped as his arm went numb, his hold on the elf relaxing. Legolas landed lightly on his feet. He smiled at the orc, a fake, cold smile that promised nothing but death.

The elf spoke a single word. “Run.”

And the orc did.

Legolas watched him go, mentally counting down in his head. _Three..._

The orc was out the door, running down the hall to get away from the elf with the unnatural eyes.

_Two..._

He headed towards the barracks, where Legolas was not allowed to go. Surely he would be safe there?

_One..._

The elf was not following him. Why was he not following him?

 _Zero_.

The orc paused, standing stock-still in the center of the hallway. Without making a sound he collapsed, dead before he could hit the floor. A small wound to his sternum trickled black blood. The orc had not even known he had been stabbed. No one was around to witness his sudden demise, and the orcs that would stumble upon his body later would shrug and drag him away without even considering an investigation. It was these small acts of vengeance against his captors that kept Legolas sane, that prevented him from exploding and rampaging through the orcs ranks until those responsible for his capture and his mother's death were massacred. That would not do, because following that path would lead to nothing but his own death. And Legolas, trapped as he was, had too much to live for.

Back at the balcony, Legolas turned on his heel and traveled through the fortress, headed towards the Witch-King's seat of power that resided in the tallest tower. The halls of Dol Guldur were ruined black stone, not even the torches holding back the large shadows that penetrated the fortress. The sun never shone on the Hill of Sorcery, the sky always in a deep overcast, yet somehow it did not rain. The Darkness was so strong that many Elves, Dwarves, and Men would have collapsed before it's might. But not Legolas.

At the bottom of the stairs he met Ciaran, who merely quirked an eyebrow at him but did not speak. The Dunedain had not changed much in the eighty years since Legolas had come to Dol Guldur. At least, not physically. The cold, apathetic man he had once been had been replaced by a calm teacher and father. Ciaran was a mix of the assassin he used to be and the father he had become with Brian. The orcs never saw the patience Ciaran had when teaching Legolas the pressure points in a human body, and never spotted the sadness in the man's eyes whenever the elf named them all correctly.

Ciaran could not escape with the elfling all those years ago, but he did manage to keep Legolas's childhood relatively happy. He managed to keep the elf good, and made sure that he knew which side he was on in the battle for Middle-earth. Ciaran was glad that Legolas did not face the cruel training he had faced as a child, and that the elf never became like him.

Side by side, the two hidden lights in a sea of darkness ascended the winding stairs that led up to the Witch-King. As they climbed, the air around them grew steadily heavier and darker, the Black Magic that made the Hill of Sorcery so evil escalating the higher they went. Neither elf nor man were affected by it, their shields locked tight around them, keeping their minds and bodies safe. They halted before a large door made of black wood, Ciaran knocking once before entering.

The Witch-King sat on a throne of black stone, blending into the shadows that shrouded his cloaked form. Torched with green flames lined the walls, doing nothing to bring light to the room and only making the shadows deeper. It seemed as if each corner was an abyss, ready to swallow anyone who dared to wander too close. Legolas and Ciaran stopped before the Witch-King, kneeling and bowing low before their “Lord”.

“You summoned us, My Lord?” Ciaran asked in a smooth, calm voice. The Nazgûl Lord's fear-inspiring aura had no affect on either assassin. They did not fear the Ringwraiths.

A soft, hissing voice emitted from the darkness beneath the hood. “For eighty years you have taught your pupil your trade. Tomorrow he will be tested.”

Neither assassin reacted or blinked. “What is the test, My Lord?” Ciaran asked.

Flaming eyes glittered from within the dark depths. “He will face thirty orcs in battle. If he survives, we will begin the final stage of his training.”

Legolas and Ciaran kept their thoughts off of their faces. They both knew what the “final stage” was. The Witch-King would cast Dark Magic upon Legolas, binding him in servitude to Sauron. That was not what worried the two, however. Legolas's training and resistance against Dark Magic was too thorough for the Witch-King's magic to work. There would be no affect on him, and the Nazgûl Lord would instantly know he had been deceived. The two would be found out and killed, all of their work for nothing.

Legolas did not straighten up or let false pleasure show on his face. That would only be seen as fake. He was an assassin, trained to be the Hand of Sauron. He showed no emotion, he felt no emotion. He was cold, aloof, and apathetic to all things, even the news that he would soon be serving his Lord. Legolas knew what was expected of him, and acted his part accordingly.

“Unfortunately, I and my kin have a prior engagement in Minas Morgul and cannot watch your test.” the Witch-King continued. “Captain Grihtz will oversee your final exam. You are dismissed.”

Heartbeats did not change, expressions remained the same, but deep inside the safety of their thoughts Legolas and Ciaran were experiencing a mix of hope and suspicion. They bowed to the Ringwraith before exiting the room, feeling his dark gaze on their backs.

 _Why would the Witch-King tell us that he and the other Nazg_ _ûl are_ _leaving?_ Legolas wondered, face revealing nothing. _Does he trust us or is he suspicious?_ He did not allow his concern to show on his face or in his movements, walking through the dark halls as casually as one strode through a village market. There was no room for fear or uncertainty in Dol Guldur. Not for them.

They made their way through the dark halls, steps confident and sure as they ignored the orcs around them. Power equaled survival in a place like this, and the two assassins exuded it in the subtle, dangerous auras surrounding them. The message they sent to the orcs around them was simple: _Anger_ _us and die._ It was intriguing that two beings could hold such power, yet be so powerless at the same time.

No one stopped the pair as they went to their rooms, some orcs even flinching out of the way as they passed. That was how things were run here. Inspiring power and fear let one come out on top. Even though all he used these techniques on were orcs, Legolas still hated it. His natural personality wanted to lead and be respected through love and good deeds. But in Dol Guldur, that would not happen.

Ciaran and Legolas entered their small section of the fortress, going out into their small training field and sitting beneath Legolas's shadowed oak tree. Still, the two did not speak their thoughts aloud. Instead, they communicated silently in the sign language of the Dwarves, Iglishmêk, which not even the Witch-King knew.

“ _What now?”_ Legolas asked. _“Tomorrow is my trial, and the Witch-King departs from Dol Guldur. Do you think this is a test, and he will remain here to see what we do?”_

“ _If he remains here, you will be able to sense it.”_ Ciaran responded. _“Even so, tomorrow is our last chance to escape. If we do not, we will be discovered anyway when the Witch-King attempts to bind you to the Dark Lord. We must leave tomorrow.”_

“ _What is your plan?”_ Legolas signed back. _“Do we attempt to sneak past their defenses?”_

“ _Yes. Though if the Witch-King is not out of the fortress when we do, it will be useless.”_ the man closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting out a soft sigh. _“_ _Either way, tomorrow will be our last day in Dol Guldur. Tomorrow we will leave this place, through freedom or death, Prince.”_

Prince. The name that Ciaran always called Legolas, although the elf did not know why. Nor did he care, for it was just a nickname after all.

The fortress of Dol Guldur had failed to take many things from Legolas. He kept his light, his goodness, his joy. He kept his mind, his freedom, his life. He even kept his morals, which many had lost in the dark Hill of Sorcery. But there was one thing he had lost. The elf did not remember much from before his arrival in Hill of Sorcery. He remembered his mother, but only vaguely. Every other memory was gone. _Every single one_.

Legolas did not remember his father. He did not know he had brothers and sisters. He did not remember pieces of the lullaby his mother used to sing to him, or the name of the place he had once called home. He did not even remember what it looked like. All of these memories, pieces of his life from before Dol Guldur, were cut off from him, including the identity he once held.

Legolas did not remember he was a son of the Elvenking of Mirkwood. He did not know he was a Prince.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

The palace of the Elvenking was as somber as a tomb. No laughter sounded through the halls. No gossip was passed between the servants. The guards were stoically silent, expressions blank or grave. A heavy grief hung over the stone halls, like a terrible storm about to break. The tension, despair, and grief were shadows penetrating the heart of the kingdom, and none could lift it.

Thranduil sat on his throne, staring at the door, waiting for it to open. He knew that it would happen soon. Every day, after all of his meetings were done, the Elvenking sat alone in the throne-room, waiting. He did not know why he still waited. The news he received never changed. In fact, it had been growing steadily vaguer and more distant these past few years. Yet deep in his heart, Thranduil knew that one of his older children would come through that door after a day on patrols. They would come in, with weariness and despair on their faces, and tell him that they could not find Legolas. They would say that they could not get close enough to Dol Guldur to find out anything. The shadowed trees reacted too violently for the elves to use stealth around the fortress. And so the warriors would come back with no news.

No news was better and worse than some news. Because Thranduil knew of only two other things his children and the warriors would say if they _did_ manage to find out what happened to Legolas: “He's alive.” or “He's dead.” The Elvenking did not know what words he feared more. And so the repeated reports of nothing new pained and relieved him. He was so selfishly relieved...

The door opened. Thranduil looked up as Megilag, his second son, strode in. So it was his turn today. Aglar, Megilag, Bereneth and Fael split up the patrols between them, scheduling it into their weekly routine. The King's warrior children always led the patrols, none of the other warriors protesting or asking for a change. There was rarely change.

There was no smile on Megilag's face, but no tears either. Instead his hazel eyes were blank, like the eyes of all his children when they told him nothing. All of them were numb, following the same routine every day, but unwilling to give it up. If they stopped patrolling the border near Dol Guldur, if they stopped trying to find a way past the angry trees and into the fortress, then they were giving up on Legolas.

Legolas, his Greenleaf, now known as the Lost Prince throughout the Elven realms.

Megilag did not go to his father and King, keeping his distance with his eyes on the ground. He could not move from the spot in which he stood, the customary distance for a captain giving a report. He could not break from the routine. He brushed a strand of silver-gold hair back from his face and spoke in a flat voice. “There was nothing.”

There it was. The single sentence that Thranduil despised because of it's repetitiveness and prayed for instead of a more terrible alternative. The phrase that had not changed for eighty years. That was all that needed to be said for Thranduil, although in reality it did not need to be spoken. Thranduil always knew there was nothing when his children walked through the door. Eighty years had not been enough time for the grief to fade, and yet it was slowly eating away at the Elvenking's soul. A sharp shudder went through Thranduil and he pressed a hand to his chest. He gasped aloud, leaning over on his throne as physical pain assaulted him. Immediately his second son was at his side, clutching his arm as he shook.

So much could not change, and yet so much had changed. Everyone— his children, his warriors, his people, and himself— suffered, each failure weighing greatly upon them, and only adding to the ever-heavier weights on their hearts and souls. Thranduil was distant and withdrawn, yet somehow managed to keep the kingdom running. The only reason he did not fade long ago was because the children he still had needed him, as did their kingdom. But his family was broken by Luineth's death and Legolas's kidnapping.

Aglar was stiff and cold. He never smiled or walked through the city to greet the people like he used to. Megilag was cold, numb, or harsh, training his warriors grimly and reacting to anything less than perfect with cool anger. He no longer flirted with every Elleth he met. Both eldest sons hunted orcs with a savage hatred in their spare time, leaving none they hunted alive. They were rarely home.

Barhad, who had always been a scholar, dove into his studies, more prone to be reading dusty old scrolls in a tiny, dark study than be outside among the trees. His twin, Bereneth, was quick to anger, snapping at people for the smallest faults. And Fael had not pulled a single prank in all the years since the disappearance, content only when training.

Only Hannel had tried her best to retain her old self and pretend everything was normal. She was still motherly, taking care of all her siblings whenever she visited from Lothlorien. But on her last visit, Bereneth— who had just returned from the Patrol— had screamed at her about not caring about Legolas. Hannel had had gone silent, then left. She simply left, and she had never come back to Mirkwood since. Her siblings would still visit her in Lothlorien on occasion, but not as often as they used to.

The Royal Family's losses were so great, it was no wonder the remaining family had shattered. Legolas and Luineth had been the ties that held them together, they had all realized too late. But now they were drifting apart, almost strangers despite their shared blood.

“Eighty years.” the Elvenking rasped. “Eighty years to the day tomorrow.” Megilag did not ask what he was speaking of. He knew. Another shudder went through the King's form, another pain striking his heart. “I cannot heal. I cannot let this go. _We_ cannot let go. So we are shattering, fading from within...” He heard his son give a sharp intake of breath and tried to reassure him. “No. I'm _not_ fading. I _won't_ leave you all.”

And yet the pain in his chest— in his spirit— said otherwise. It would be so easy to let go, to allow his grieving soul to pass on into death. Thranduil clung grimly to life day by day, clutching to the hope that Legolas would be returned to them one day. But he could feel himself weakening. If something did not happen, if Legolas's fate remained a mystery, the Elvenking feared that he would give in. Only the futile hope and a sense of duty had kept him grounded to Middle-earth for the past eight decades. But it was becoming harder, so, _so_ much harder to resist...

“Ada?” Megilag's concerned voice drew the exhausted father out of his musings.

Thranduil's eyes focused to find his second-eldest son standing in front of him, his hands placed lightly upon his father's shoulders. The fear in those ancient and too-young eyes struck the Elvenking's core, making his heart clench in a way that had nothing to do with fading.

“I am fine.” Thranduil tried to reassure him. “I am fine.” he repeated, as if to affirm the statement. They both knew that he was lying.

“Ada,” Megilag whispered, voice soft and strained. “You cannot carry on like this. None of us can.”

Thranduil merely looked at him, the fire in his eyes gone. “Then what do we do, Ion-nin?” he asked. “Do we let go? Do we forget? Do we leave your brother to his fate? Tell me, _what_ should we do?” Years ago, the words might have been said in anger, with a loud voice that demanded obedience. Now, the King's voice was soft, filled with an emptiness that threatened to pull all hearing it into despair.

Megilag stared wordlessly at his father, and spoke with the same numbness as he. “I don't know. I do not know what to do.” His head dropped in defeat, his fists clenching at his sides.

Many wondered why the Royal Family had not followed their mother and wife to the grave. At first, it was hope for Legolas that banked them. But now that hope was fading fast. Their grip on life was fading, some more obviously then in others, and with it Mirkwood's ability to fight the Shadow was also failing. Thranduil knew it. His children knew it. The warriors and guards of Mirkwood knew it. And they were powerless to stop it.

If their lasting hope faded completely, or Legolas died, two things could happen. One possibility was that all of the Royal Family would fade, leaving Mirkwood leaderless. Without the will of the King or his children, Mirkwood would fall to the Shadow. The other possibility, however, could be even worse. Thranduil and four of his children— Aglar, Megilag, Bereneth, and Fael— were known to be stubborn, confrontational, and unwilling to compromise with others. If the worst came to pass, instead of fading, the family could become colder than they already were, lashing out at outsiders in anger and rage. Mirkwood Elves already had a reputation of being unfriendly, and that persona could become reality. Either way, the family— except perhaps Hannel who had distanced herself from the others for so long— would be doomed, to slow death or cold unhappiness if Legolas was not returned alive.

And so the Elvenking and his six accountable children prayed for their youngest sibling and son. They begged for Legolas's life, pleading with the Valar to give him back to them. Each day they went out and searched for answers, finding none. And each day they clung to their desperate hope, hope they had kept alive for eighty years.

In the end, hope was all they had left.


	3. The Trial

**Chapter Two: The Trial**

_Third Age 2611 (400 years ago...)_

The fortress Dol Guldur was alive with excitement and activity. The orcs were riled and impatient, eagerly waiting for the battle between Legolas and the thirty Berserker-orcs that the Witch-King had selected to test the elf. Not all the orcs could watch of course. The Witch-King himself had selected those who could witness the battle to properly gauge— and fear— Legolas's skill and ability. An undercurrent of tension and savage excitement seemed to ripple through the ranks of creatures, filling the air with the chaotic buzz of impending blood-lust. The orcs were eager to see blood spilled, be it crimson elven blood or the black blood that ran through the veins of their kind.

Blood has already been spilled in the fortress's dark halls as the orcs entered a betting pool. Some bet the elf would kill all of the orcs, others believed he did not stand a chance against them. The disagreements ended violently, like they always did in Dol Guldur. One side was left wounded or dead while the other smirked in triumph over his adversaries' limp form.

In sharp contrast to the chaos around him, Legolas stood quietly beneath his oak tree for what would be the last time. His eyes were closed and his face tilted up towards the sky. Beside him was Ciaran, who looked completely relaxed but felt anything but. A long moment passed in silence, with the elf standing absolutely still and the man waited patiently. Legolas felt the area around him, the lightness in the air that signified something much more than natural occurences. His heart was light and his thoughts were clear, not surrounded by the pushing dark that always lingered outside of his consciousness. Violet eyes opened.

“The Nine are gone, including the Witch-King,” he reported, glancing at his mentor.

Ciaran was quiet, none of his thoughts showing on his face. Still silent, he reached out and gripped Legolas's shoulder, squeezing his arm gently. “Today we change our fates, Prince.” he murmured. “Are you ready?”

A heavy weight of tension settled in Legolas's gut. This was it. The upcoming events would decide whether they would walk free or be slaughtered. The elf could feel panic gripping him and clenched his fists, breathing out slowly. There was no room for emotion or fear in the next few hours. Fear and emotions made people hasty, and hastiness led to mistakes. He had to be centered and absolutely calm.

Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe in. Exhale. With each breath Legolas calmed himself, letting go of his nerves and fears and replacing them with instinct and logic. Resolute violet eyes locked with collected hazel and the elf nodded. “I'm ready.”

Ciaran nodded once and the two entered their apartment for the final time. The elder assassin glanced at his apprentice, a small, secretive smirk appearing on his lips. “I'll be back.” he said, and walked swiftly out of the room.

Legolas watched him go before turning towards his room. He could not help but run his hand along the smooth stone walls as he walked through the rooms that had been his “home” for the past eighty years. Although Dol Guldur was a terrible place, it was the only place he remembered. Yes, the outside world sounded much brighter and more lovable, but the dark stones and cold halls were where he grew up.

Legolas felt a pang of worry mixed with fear that had nothing to do with his upcoming trial. Elves were supposed to be at home among the trees, yet he was content in stone, with only one shadowed oak tree to accompany him. For the thousandth time, Legolas wondered if there was something wrong with him. Was he used to stone because it was where he grew up, or was he an unnatural elf? Yes, he always felt calmer under his tree's boughs but still...

Legolas quickly cut off this train of thought. _Enough of that. I must focus._

Pushing his worries away, the elf walked into his room, pulling out a small, flat chest from beneath his bed. Gently, he unlocked the chest and lifted the lid, revealing the contents inside. An elegant bow with green-feathered arrows and two long white-handled knives lay in the chest, seeming to glow softly in the shadows caused by Dol Guldur's air. All were of Elven make, smuggled into the fortress by Ciaran many years in the past. They were Legolas's preferred weapons, though he normally would never dare to use them here. However, the time for hiding was quickly passing, and the Elven blades and arrows— along with the other weapons hidden on his person— might give him the edge he needed in the coming battle. Not in the battle against thirty orcs, but afterward, once the orcs realized that they all were under attack.

It was impossible for the two assassins to kill all of the orcs that were gathered to watch the test before one could sound an alarm, but the two soon-to-be escapees had subtlety and distraction on their side. Said distraction was the reason Ciaran had slipped away. It was much easier to sneak about with the Witch-King absent. So much easier it was almost amusing. Almost.

A fatal poison put into the orcs' food would be enough to give Legolas and Ciaran the edge that they would need to escape. The spectators were all eating together, enjoying a final meal before the test. If all went well, the orcs watching and participating in the trial would collapse not long after it began, along with many of the orcs who resided in the fortress. The poison moved slowly through the bloodstream, taking fifteen minutes to reach the heart. Once it passed into that vital organ, it would take immediate effect, causing the heart to constrict and making it's beat falter. This would kill many of the orcs, heavily weakening others. Those who were a little more resistant would have to be taken care of, quickly.

The image of calm and control, Legolas did not look back as he left the apartment, carrying only his weapons and the clothes on his back. He could not bring anything else, like food, or the orcs would suspect something was amiss. Orcs were sometimes stupid and brutish, but not _that_ unobservant. Besides, the elf did not have much for possessions. Ciaran met him just outside of the training grounds but did not speak or even look at him. His face, like Legolas's, showed none of his thoughts. Any nervousness or tension he may have been feeling was trapped within him, only known to himself in the safety of his mind.

The training area was a large arena of stone, on the first floor rectangular in shape. There was no roof, leaving the area open to the elements and sky. Normally, targets, weapons, and shields were lined along the wall, but all had been taken away in favor of giving the orc spectators room to stand. It was odd that such a training round would be “in” the fortress, but the setup kept watchful eyes from knowing the number of orcs within Dol Guldur. The orc spectators were gathered in a jumbled mass, lining the walls. To Legolas they were almost like a thundercloud, shifting and rolling with impatience as they waited for the bitter violence to begin.

Legolas's opponents— all Berserker-orcs— stood in the center of the field, waiting impatiently for their adversary to arrive. Berserkers were specially trained to not feel or acknowledge pain, and were incredibly difficult to kill. Berserkers did whatever it took to complete their mission, with no regard for their bodies. If they died in the process of their mission, but completed it, then they were a success. This put the number of Berserkers at a low in the Armies of Sauron, of course, because they lacked survival instinct and tended to die quickly. Legolas was glad about that, for if every orcs fought like a Berserker, high death rate or no, then those who fought for a free Middle-earth would be overwhelmed by the Berserkers' relentless rage.

The elf admitted to himself that he was a little nervous about battling the thirty Berserkers. Unless the poison killed all of them, it would be up to Ciaran and him to slay them _immediately_ , before they could shout an alarm. That was easier said then done. While most Berserkers lacked finesse in battle, opting to use random swings and stabs to kill their opponents, these thirty Berserkers had a bit more skill. The thirty selected Berserkers were both tough and smart, masters in their choice of weapon. Ten were swordsmen, seven were archers, five hefted axes, and eight preferred whips and daggers.

Their battle-cries would be unheeded— Legolas was _supposed_ to be fighting them after all— but a shout that the two assassins were escaping would be noticed. Legolas knew that he had to take out as many of the Berserkers as possible during the few minutes he had in the trial, leaving only a few potential opponents left when the poison took hold. Hopefully it would prove to only be a precautionary measure. Legolas trusted his and Ciran's knowledge of poisons, and was confident that it would kill most if not all of the orcs, but Berserkers tended to be unpredictable.

Once, Legolas had watched a battle between one Berserker and six orcs. One orc had managed to stab the Berserker in the heart, but the creature kept fighting, killing all of his opponents before dying himself. As the elf approached the center of the training area, he reminded himself to attack the instantaneous-death points Ciaran had drilled into him. His other advantage in this battle was not just his knowledge of killing strikes, but also the weakness no Berserker seemed able to overcome. For an unknown reason, perhaps because of the nerve-loss experienced due to their pain training, Berserkers had little to no reflex reaction. Legolas, meanwhile, was an elf, who could react faster than a blink. In the end, that was what would help the elf the most, for this was not a test of swordplay, but a trial of how quickly and efficiently Legolas could kill. Most targets would have many guarding them, after all.

The orcs parted as he passed, Ciaran at his right shoulder, but Legolas focused on his opponents, noting the gaps in their armor and any other weaknesses he could find. _Eyes, head, throat, under the arm, mid-side, lower back, back of the knees..._

Too quickly, but after what seemed like hours, Legolas was at the center of the clearing The orcs gathered together, closing off the exit behind him. His posture was relaxed, as if he was waiting for a friendly game to start rather than a battle to the death. The elf let his gaze pass over the Berserkers before settling on Grihtz, who would be overseeing the match. He grinned mentally. _Good. I won't have to hunt you down before I leave then..._

“Today is the trial of Assassin Legolas!” the Orc Captain boomed, unaware of Legolas's murderous thoughts. “Battle to the death, thirty against one! Anything is acceptable except idiotic maggots—” Here he shot the watching orcs a glare. “—interfering!” Grihtz backed out of the clearing, joining the eager orcs that lined the area. “Begin in three... two... one... START!”

And Legolas _moved_.

The spectators were stunned into silence, watching with mute fear as the elf became a blur. Barely a second passing, he stabbed one mace-wielding Berserker in the throat and a whip-carrying one in the eye, twisting to behead a swordsman before he could react. Not breaking stride, the elf unsheathed his bow and released three arrows, the shafts burying themselves into his targets' throats. Two more archers and an axeman fell.

His bow was back over his shoulder and his knives were drawn in an instant. By then the remaining twenty-four Berserkers were upon him, shrieking battle-cries as they converged upon the elf. At least, they tried to.

Like water flowing through loose stones, Legolas danced around the Berserkers, letting them stab, wound, and kill each other as they attacked with haste and vigor. They were overconfident, arrogant that they would overwhelm him, and their impatience became their downfall. Legolas did not move with large leaps and bounds, but with tiny shifts of his body, simply allowing the weapons to pass by him instead of blocking. The assassin lashed out against his foes with quick, precise stabs. In the massed melee around the elf, twelve more Berserkers fell.

Legolas leaned over, a Berserker's mace swinging above him harmlessly. As graceful as a dancer he straightened himself, blade snaking through the gap between armor-plates and into scarred flesh. Before the Berserker could fall Legolas gave him a harsh kick, sending him careening into two of his fellows. Legolas twisted and leapt out of the way of a sword, slashing through the two downed Berserkers' neck arteries as he passed over them.

Another enemy came, another shift in position was used, and a sword struck the Berserker at his shoulder. His arms swept sideways, and the swordsman suffered a blow that cut into his head, the second stab ending his existence. Legolas kicked out, bringing an axe-wielder to his knees, and rolled out of the way as a whip descended where he had been, striking the axe-wielder instead. Legolas grabbed the whip, pulling, and buried his right blade into the Berserker's forehead up to its hilt.

Five Berserkers were left, barely three minutes into the battle. Legolas mentally calculated the passing time since Ciaran had left to complete his mission, subtracting the time since the orcs had eaten. He did not turn away from the fight to catch eyes with his mentor, pushing himself as the final count ticked down.

_Three..._

The last axe-wielding Berserker went down, killed by a swift cut that severed his spinal cord.

_Two..._

Two arrows stopped two more Berserkers' hearts, one into the head and one into the throat of his enemies. Legolas readied himself as the final two advanced.

_One..._

Legolas's blade slashed across the last dagger-wielding Berserker, the orc's whip already cut by his knives. The Berserker remained on his feet, stabbing at him wildly. The elf _shifted_ out of the way, grabbing his opponent's arm as he passed while pressing a point on the orc's neck with his other hand. The Berserker slumped, lifeless. The elf's last opponent froze as he realized he was alone, and knew he stood no chance against this adversary. His training soon kicked in however, and the Berserker charged the assassin, shouting a challenge. The elf did not move, waiting for his final enemy to come.

_Zero._

Legolas dispatched of the final Berserker... and around him, the orcs fell. They collapsed in large waves, the poison in their bodies stopping their hearts as efficiently as a blade. None made a sound as they fell, only soft thuds marking their contact with the ground. Without signals or words, Ciaran and Legolas flitted among the spectators, silencing the orcs that still lived too fast for them to even realize they had been struck. The two were blurs, dancing through the orcs with blades flashing in the dark. Silent as death itself they ended their enemies lives, the orcs falling to the weapons of the ones they kept prisoner for so long.

Legolas's eyes fell on the final orc and he smiled, a cold, feral smile that was a terrible sight to behold. He strode forward, a predator who had sighted long awaited prey, and paused. He stared into terrified yet arrogant yellow eyes, and his own expression hardened. Quick as a blink, metal sliced through flesh and bone, and Orc Captain Grihtz's head rolled away from his body. Legolas looked down at the decapitated body and spoke in a voice colder than ice.

“That was for my mother, _Delorcion_.”

He turned away, running after Ciaran as the elder assassin headed for the door. Now the difficult part began: getting out of the fortress without being detected. Legolas's senses were on high-alert as he followed his mentor down the first hall. It would not take long for the orcs to know something had happened. The area in which the elf's test had taken place was now too quiet. An observant orc might notice the unnatural silence, and come to investigate. Which meant the two assassins had to be as far out of the fortress as possible before the alarm came.

To get out of Dol Guldur, Legolas and Ciaran had seven sets of guards to pass. The fortress was set up like a castle, but has a series of extra guards and gates inside the building like those found in a large city. Metal-bar gates were built into the maze-like halls, their purpose to delay and confuse enemies that managed to get into the fortress. A series of walls separated some of the halls, their purpose to trap intruders between the wall and the defenders of the Hill of Sorcery.

From the training area, it was right to the first, second, third, and fourth gate, left to the fifth, right to the sixth and seventh, then left to the small door that led outside at the back corner of the fortress. That door was the only way out other than the front gate, which was guarded by fifty orcs, both inside and out. All of the windows were either too high or barred, which made escaping that way impossible.

Each gate had a set of five guards, not a problem as long as none had time to call for assistance. The two assassins had decided beforehand that Legolas would take out three of the guards while Ciaran killed the other two. The elf was faster than his mentor, and that extra speed could be enough to keep them alive and undetected for as long as possible.

The two were silent as they moved. Stealth was their ally now. They kept to the numerous shadows cast by the sparse torches, soundless and unseen, as the first gate came into sight. They swept down on the orcs like spirits of death. Legolas struck thrice, Ciaran twice, and the first five guards lay dead. The man grabbed the key from the leading orc's belt and unlocked the gate before shutting it behind them. Then, still silent, they moved on.

The next six gates were dealt with just as quickly, the assassins striking before the orcs knew they were there. But as they approached the seventh, a shout went up from far behind them.

“They're dead!” an orc screamed in the distance, an enemy finally stumbling upon the two assassins' handiwork.

Instantly, the orcs at the gate were on guard, tense as they peered into the shadows suspiciously. The head guard of the gate turned to his fellow, barking out an order.

“You! Go see what 'e's yellin' about!”

The orc grunt nodded, opening the gate and stepping through. Ciaran cut him down, Legolas silencing two others with small throwing knives. He struck the leader in the throat, making him gasp for air, before slamming the orc's head into the stone wall. A scream ripped through the air and Legolas spun towards the noise. Ciaran cursed softly as he dispatched of the screamer, beckoning to Legolas.

“In here.”

The two dashed down the hall, sliding into an empty storeroom as orcs thundered down the hall. The elf and man listened to their alarmed cries and explanations as they discovered their dead allies.

“There are enemies within the fortress!” an orc shouted over the resulting chaos. “Warn the inner guard!”

Legolas resisted the urge to sigh, keeping absolutely still as he and his mentor waited for the orcs to pass. The captain that was present was most likely one of the stupider orcs, not realizing that enemies were trying to get out of Dol Guldur, not in. Ciaran and Legolas waited for the orcs to recede and moved on, to the final gate.

 _This is too easy..._ Legolas thought as he observed the guards that were the only things between them and the outside world. They had faced little resistance as they escaped, the guards completely surprised by their attacks. Did they truly not suspect treason from within the fortress? If not from the assassins, from _someone_ there. Not all of Sauron's followers were completely loyal, like the Men. Was Sauron and the Witch-King's holds over their pawns so unbreakable that none could rebel? Legolas knew that Mordor would collapse into nothingness if Sauron fell. Would all of the orcs die if the Dark Lord did?

Or perhaps it was the Witch-King's presence that had lulled the orcs of Dol Guldur into complacency. The Nazgûl King was a powerful sorcerer, and gave Dol Guldur much of its might with his mere presence. But now he and the other Nine were absent, and some of the darkness had lifted. Either way, there was a weakness here that could be fully exploited someday. 

Legolas pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind, once more focusing on the escape. Like an owl leaping down on prey, the assassins met their final foes. A slash, a thrust, and three stabs later, it was over. Elf and man stood side by side, their enemies fallen around them.

 _Too easy._ Legolas's mind warned. _Far too easy. Stay wary._

The elf stepped outside, taking a breath of fresh air and looking up at the sky. The air was cool and the sky cloudy, but he had never seen anything more wonderful in his life. In the distance, a mere fifty yards away, the forest stood tall. The shadowed trees rustled and whispered in excitement, sensing him even from afar. The elf resisted the urge to reach out and speak to the shadowed trees. He and Ciaran were not out of danger yet. They could still be seen from the windows and shot. Though it was still daytime, the grounds were as dark as twilight beneath the clouds. Legolas focused on the path ahead, his mentor watching their backs as they ran, shadows hiding within shadows. The younger assassin could feel elation grip him as freedom— true freedom— came ever-closer. As soon as they reached the treeline they were safe, able to vanish into the forest, and evade any who pursued them.

After that, Legolas was not quite sure where they were going. Personally, he wanted to travel through Middle-earth, and see all of the places Ciaran had told him about. Gondor, Rohan, the Shire, Rivendell, Lothlorien... all of it. There were so many places to explore, so many places he wanted to see... Unintentionally, Legolas let his mind wander. Ciaran's hand on his shoulder made him stiffen.

“Focus, young one.” the man said gravely. “Keep your head.”

Legolas caught his eye before turning back to the front, once more scanning the area for any signs of danger. Ciaran continued his watch of the back, eyes moving over the fortress intently as he searched for enemies...

It was amazing how quickly things could go wrong.

Ciaran spotted movement up the side of the fortress. An orc stood three stories up, grim and determined as he drew his bowstring back. A black-tipped, poisoned arrow strained against his bow as he aimed down at the two assassins. Before the man could speak or move in warning, the deadly shaft was released, whizzing through the air towards—

“NO!” Ciaran shouted, twisting Legolas around and shielding the elf's body with his own.

Legolas felt his mentor jerk as the arrow struck him, a gasp of pain ripping free of the man's lips. Ciaran slumped, weight falling heavily on the elf, who held the man firmly to keep him from slumping to the ground.

“Ciaran!”

The man grimaced in pain, speaking hoarsely but urgently. “Archer...”

Legolas spotted the orc. His bow was strung, aimed, and fired in a second. The orc jerked as the arrow struck him, plummeting from his perch and hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The threat gone, the elf's attention immediately turned back to his mentor, shifting him carefully to study his wound. An arrow protruded from the man's back, crimson blood contrasting sharply with the dark color of his tunic. Legolas's breathing quickened as he stared at the wound, bitter fear clenching around his heart.

“Ciaran...”

The man looked at him with pain-filled hazel eyes, a shaky smile forming on his lips. “I'm alright, Prince.” he rasped, though both knew he was lying.

Despite his mind telling him the terrible truth, Legolas lifted his mentor into his arms, hurrying towards the forest. If they got to the elves— _He will not make it._ — they might be able to heal him— _The wound is fatal—_ and Ciaran would be fine— _You know it's useless_. Legolas ignored fact and knowledge, emotion driving his body's movements as he ran to the trees. Ciaran's face was steadily paling, breath rasping as he struggled to draw in air.

“Legolas...”

“Don't speak.”

“You need to go...”

“I'm not leaving you.”

“Prince...”

“Quiet. We're not doing this.”

A hollow laugh sounded from the man, tired an mirthless. “Foolish Prince—”

Ciaran grunted and tensed in Legolas's arms, back arching in pain. Legolas almost lost his grip on his mentor, and quickly lowered himself to the ground as his hold on the man weakened. The man breathed in short, shallow gasps, muscles locked as agony pierced through him.

“Listen—” the assassin gasped, gripping the elf's arm tightly. “You must... listen. _Please_.”

Legolas wanted to refuse. If he did not, then Ciaran would speak, and say things that could _not_ be said. He would make requests, tell truths, and in turn openly _acknowledge_ that he was dying. The elf did not want to let him, but he could not deny his mentor. The man's hazel eyes were clouding as he looked at Legolas, the grip on the elf's arm never faltering.

Ciaran coughed, blood trickling down his chin. His lungs were filling with fluid, killing him from within. He could see the tears brimming in Legolas's violet eyes, held back only by the elf's iron will. Too quickly, darkness crept in on Ciaran's vision, Legolas's face fading into shadows. The man felt a moment of panic. He could not leave yet. He still had things to say! He could feel himself fading, the strength and pain leaving his limbs as his body went numb. Unable to see, unable to speak, Ciaran slipped into his thoughts, desperately wishing he could say what he must.

 _You must be strong, Legolas. Do not let grief claim you. I know that I'm the only one you have but you must survive this. Keep your heart pure, and never falter in your path_. _There is so much you are meant to do..._ The assassin could not find the strength to push through the darkness and speak. He could not say all he wished. But he had to! There was one thing he _had_ to say, something he had never dared say before...

He felt his lips move, but his voice was distant and soft to his own ears, echoing from a far-off place. “I'm... proud of... you...” he wheezed, barely loud enough for the elf to hear. “... my son.” The last word faded from Ciaran's lips and the hand grasping Legolas's arm went limp.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Delorcion: Shortened version of “Delos-orch-ion” Means “Detested-orc-son” Basically my created version of “bastard”


	4. Fathers and Sons

**Chapter Three: Father and Son**

_Third Age 2611 (400 years ago...)_

Legolas sobbed as he cradled Ciaran's body in his arms, weeping against his father's chest. For a long moment he lay there, pain in his heart and soul, and allowed his emotions to overcome him. Tears streamed down his cheeks in silver rivers of salt-water, his eyes stinging and chest aching as his grief broke free. He cried and wailed and shook Ciaran, begging him to _please, please wake up!_ The calculating assassin that the man had trained was momentarily gone, replaced by a scared young elf who had just lost his father.

Then he heard more orcs heading towards him. Legolas gasped once, gathered strength from his training, and brutally cut himself off from his emotions. He could not linger to grieve. He had to leave. If he remained like this, weeping over his father's cooling frame, he would be killed. And Ciaran's death would be for nothing.

Laying Ciaran gently on the ground, the elf stood and looked at the incoming orcs, his face impassive despite the still-wet tears on his face. Then, he charged. While most may have screamed their anger in a battle-cry or attacked their foes with reckless fury, Legolas was as silent as a shadow. Like a fanged snake he struck, knives burying into flesh and bone with rapid thrusts and blows. While some warriors may have drawn out the battle, Legolas did not, forsaking swordplay in exchange for swift, deadly stabs. He was water, smooth and flowing. He was air, tireless and inescapable. He was stone, detached and unbreakable. He was lightning, quick and deadly. He was fire, rearing up to strike.

Enemies fell faster than they could gather, falling before the assassin's icy, precise, calm _rage_. His cold, mechanical, almost apathetic attacks made him all the more terrifying to the orcs than any anger could be. Some turned to flee but Legolas stalked them like a lion hunting prey, cutting them down before they could reach the safety of the fortress. Not a single stab or slice missed it's mark.

His sharp eyes spotted another archer up on the fourth floor, bow strung. Quick as a blink the elf had drawn and fired, his arrow's flight halted by the orc's head. He shot three more enemies as they approached, their bodies piling up in the small doorway that had served as his escape route.

Abruptly, he ran out of enemies, his wide awareness sensing no others nearby. It was time to leave. Glaring at the black fortress behind him, Legolas ran back to Ciaran and lifted him up, taking quick strides into the trees. Instantly, the shadowed trees welcomed him.

 _Daelas! Shadowleaf!_ They called, leaves rustling and limbs quivering with excitement. _You have come, Shadowleaf! You are here at last!_ Their joy quickly became bitter rage as they saw what had happened to his mentor. _Who did this?_ They demanded. _Who killed your heart-father?_

Legolas gently lay Ciaran down beneath a beech, the tree's limbs brushing against his shoulders and head in an attempt to comfort him. Legolas lay a hand on his mentor's shoulder, stunned by the coldness of his skin.

 _One of the orcs shot him,_ he told the trees, a single tear dripping from his right eye. _I killed the one who did it._ Now that the danger had passed, the elf could feel an odd ache around his heart, a heavy emptiness settling in his chest. It was constricting and cold, sending ice through his veins and making him feel chilled and weak. He wanted to weep, but could not bring himself to shed any more tears. He just felt so _cold_.

Not noticing his discomfort, the trees hissed and thrashed, angry for once at those who worshiped the Shadow. _Evil orcs. Stupid orcs. They burn our friends and break our limbs. Nasty, nasty, evil orcs!_ For a brief moment, a few of the trees saw a flash of what the forest had looked like before the darkness had come. _They ruined us. They corrupted us._ Then the memory grew vague and those trees paused, confusion entering their voices. _All is dark because of them._

The trees became melancholic, their despair and depression pushing down on Legolas. The elf curled in on himself next to Ciaran's body, unable to pull breathe into his lungs. The chill was spreading outward, creeping into his limbs. He had never felt such _cold_ before, not even when encountering the darkest of powers in Dol Guldur. Legolas winced, pressing a hand to his chest. What was this pain?

The oak he lay beneath touched his head with a long branch, melancholy vanishing in the wake of concern. _Shadowleaf? What ails you?_

 _My chest_ , he gasped. _It hurts._ He knew he was not wounded or poisoned. He had not been struck and had not breathed or ingested any unusual substances. There was no reason for him to feel like this. He thought hard, trying to come up with an answer, even going through the human illnesses Ciaran had told him of. _Ciaran..._

The thought of his mentor sent another bolt of pain through his chest, blunt yet sharp as a blade. It was then that Legolas realized what he was experiencing. Elven grief. This pain was the wound upon his heart from losing Ciaran. It was a hole in his soul, a piece of himself ripped away by his father's passing. It was in that instant that Legolas understood why his kin did not become attached to mortals. It hurt too much when they inevitably died.

Memories of Ciaran ran through his mind as clearly as the day he had lived them. The elf could see his face with a rare smile. He could feel the man's fatherly embrace as a much younger Legolas ran into his room, crying after nightmares. He could hear his voice, calm and strong, encouraging him as he tried to shoot a bow for the first time...

The elf curled up as tightly as he could, the tears breaking free and trickling down his cold cheeks. He clutched at the earth beside him, fingers scraping through the dirt, as the grief crushed his heart more and more. He could not hear the shadowed trees worried shouts, or feel their quick frustration and fear when he did not respond. He was lost in a sea of emotions, pain, joy, love, and grief warring within him. He had never experienced cold before, but this chill had to be colder than anything a mortal could withstand. Legolas found that he could not breathe because of it, feeling light-headed, dizzy, and tired. Suddenly, he just wanted to sleep... and not wake up.

_No!_

Legolas gasped and forced himself to uncurl, rising to his hand and knees with his fingers digging into the earth. Weakness had been taken over by shame and shock, the elf forcing himself out of the hole he had fallen in through pure will. How could he think about giving up? How could he think about fading? Ciaran had died for him, and losing himself to grief would make his death be for nothing.

The elf gritted his teeth, pushing back the horde of memories that had pushed him so deeply into mourning. He dare not allow himself such overwhelming emotional weakness. Dol Guldur was still close, with danger all around. If he mourned now, here, the orcs could find him. Sinking into elven grief could very well lead to his death.

Legolas _would_ mourn— he had to— but he could not let grief take him. If he allowed himself to experience the full capabilities of elven grief, he would fade. He knew he would. He could not allow that to happen. He had to live for Ciaran, who had died to protect him and to make sure he would be free. He was free... but why did freedom have to come at such a price?

Legolas stood slowly, every part of him aching but not as badly as before. Once more, he picked up Ciaran, carrying his mentor deeper into the forest. Every few moments, he would glance behind him at the still-visible fortress, watching as it faded into the distance. Around him, the forest began to change, growing slightly less dark with every few steps. It was still dark, the trees still shadowed, but noticeably lighter than it had been. At least, to Legolas it was. As he walked in silence, carrying his mentor's body, he had no idea where he was headed. All he knew was he needed to put Ciaran to rest.

Unknown to the elf, the shadowed trees behind him spoke to one another, a message passing from consciousness to consciousness as the trees conversed. The message was short, only two sentences, but would cause a reaction none would ever have expected.

 _The orcs are evil. They wish to harm Daelas._ The trees told each other. _The orcs are evil. They wish to harm our Shadowleaf._

The trees knew Daelas, though they had never met him before this day. Yet for years they had heard him speaking to their kin in Dol Guldur. Through that oak tree they listened and whispered to the elf, teaching him their speech and telling him of things in the outside world. The shadowed trees, usually moody and easily angered, were almost calm when Daelas spoke to them. They were almost content. And they almost remembered what they had once been.

Despite many elves' claims that the trees on Dol Guldur's side of the forest were evil, in truth they were not. They were merely lost, afraid, and alone, the Shadow squeezing the life and joy from their limbs. But Daelas helped them regain bits of themselves. He helped them remember that not all was dark in the world. He spoke to them without fear, and listened to the voices that had been ignored and suppressed for so long. These simple things, things Legolas cherished yet did not fully understand the impact of, were enough for the shadowed trees to care for him. Not only care, but give him their loyalty and protection.

The shadowed trees were— by the nature forced upon them— on the side of Sauron. At least, they were because they had no other choice. They had no reason for another choice. But then their Shadowleaf came along, and helped them remember things they had forgotten. Now the trees saw they had a choice. In their minds, the optional sides they could join were now two instead of one. There were the orcs and the servants of Sauron, and then there was Shadowleaf. Though Legolas had had a great influence on the trees, the thought of allying themselves with the too-bright-painful-glowing elves had never come into their mind.

For many years the shadowed trees had been content to let the orcs roam beneath their boughs and wreak havoc. But now they had killed Daelas's heart-father, and wished to kill Shadowleaf. They were Daelas's _enemies_. That changed everything.

 _We will protect Daelas._ The shadowed trees thought vehemently. _None shall harm our Shadowleaf!_

If the orcs were Daelas's enemies, then they were the darkened trees' enemies as well!

LOTRLOTRLOTR

The Witch-King of Angmar was angry. No, he was more than angry. He was frustrated, humiliated, and swore he would behead the next orc to come to him with bad news. The Ringwraith stood by the window of his room, staring down at the distant orcs as they pulled bodies into a pile and burned them. After successfully awakening Minas Morgul's power, the Nazgûl Lord and his kin had returned to Dol Guldur... to find the fortress in a state of disarray. 

The two assassins, the Elf and the Man, had betrayed him.

During the test of Legolas Thranduilion, the two had escaped the fortress, killing any orcs that got in their way. Over a hundred were dead, thirty Berserkers, thirty-five guards, and over forty other orcs who had watched the elf's match, including Captain Grihtz.

How had the two managed to remain light and hide it while within the Hill of Sorcery? It should be impossible. Then again, the Touch of Death was one of the best in his trade, excelling in protection against magic. He had taught all of his skills to his apprentice, this the Witch-King knew. That was why he had hired Ciaran to teach the elfling. Many assassins neglected in learning things other than deception and killing. Ciaran was a rare master of all things to do with assassination, and had seemed to be swayed to the Enemy's side. But that loyalty had been nothing but farce, and now the Witch-King had helped create an assassin, a _weapon_ , that would be used against _him_. 

Able to hide in the shadows, kill scores of orcs on his own, and was immune or able to hide from the darkest of powers... Legolas Thranduilion was _dangerous_. Actually, dangerous did not even begin to describe him. He was a nightmare, and could be a serious threat to the Enemy if he joined with the Free People. But would he? The Free People of Middle-earth, especially Men, were known to fear and shun those with abilities that scared them. An assassin-elf would fall far within the category of “fear”, even to his allies. 

Even the elves might reject him. He was an elf, but he did not show his inner light, and whose eyes were decidedly unnatural. Due to their inability to change, many of the older elves— like Galadriel— might not accept him. The Witch-King hoped so. By himself, Legolas was dangerous and deadly. While allied with the Free People, with knowledge of the Enemy no others had, he could make much of Sauron's work crumble.

But that was only if Legolas sought out potential allies. While deadly and dangerous, the elf was also naive and uncertain. He had just lost his mentor— the only person he had— just after stepping out into the world. It was unlikely Legolas would reveal himself to his kin. While Ciaran was knowledgeable of elves and their ways, he would not have enough information for Legolas to feel comfortable living with them so soon. Most likely the assassin would remain in the forest or mingle among the humans. 

If Ciaran were there to show him the world, he would go with his mentor to wherever the man wished. But Ciaran was not there. He was dead. It would take a while for Legolas to show himself to his own kin. One did not simply walk into an elven realm and introduce oneself, after all.

The Witch-King's thoughts were interrupted by his door banging open. An Orc Captain hurried in, armor askew with bits of twig and leaves stuck in the joints and his hair. The Ringwraith's curiosity overcame his annoyance and he refrained from decapitating the idiot for barging into his room.

He glared at the orc with fiery eyes, freezing him in place. “Report.”

“My Lord, the trees are attacking us whenever we set foot within the forest.” the Orc Captain growled. “I've lost forty soldiers to them!”

Of all the things the Witch-King had been expecting to hear, that was the last. “The shadowed trees have turned against us?”

“Yes, my Lord.” the orc said.

The Nazgûl Lord rose to his feet, striding forward until he was face-to-face with his subordinate. The orc tensed but did not move, caught by the Witch-King's eyes like a mouse was frozen by a snake's. His chin jerked up the slightest bit, annoying the already irritated Ringwraith. He wanted fear, not courage.

“I am greatly displeased.” the Nazgûl Lord snarled. “ _Greatly_ displeased.”

The Orc Captain kept his silence, knowing any response would not be taken well. With a hiss of disgust the Witch-King turned away from his subordinate, glaring out the window at the traitorous shadowed trees.

So much of their work had been undone in a single day. Not only had the Shadow lost a deadly assassin, but the shadowed trees had chosen to join his side! The Ringwraith decided it would have been much for gratifying to use the Elf-Prince as a hostage to force his father into submission. While it was extremely satisfying to see the Elvenking fading in grief, the allure had been lost now that Legolas had escaped...

The Witch-King paused mid-step, a sudden idea forming in his mind. He studied the orc, gauging him, noting that despite his nerves he stood impassive and strong. The Ringwraith circled the Orc Captain like a shark scenting blood, studying him and pinning him in place with the power of his eyes. Finally halting in front of the orc, he leaned forward until they were face-to-face once more.

“Are you willing to die in the name of Sauron?” the Witch-King hissed.

The Orc Captain nodded without hesitation. “Yes, my Lord.”

If the Witch-King had had a face in the physical realm, he would have been smiling. “Then I have a special task for you.”

Perhaps something from all this could be used to their advantage after all.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Thranduil worked methodically at the pile of papers on his desk, signing the documents he grabbed without really looking at them. Beside him sat Barhad, his fourth child and third son, working quietly at his side. Sometimes the third Prince of Mirkwood would point out something about the document he held, telling his father of its contents in more detail but other than that, it was silent.

Unlike with his other children, Thranduil did not feel like the silence between him and Barhad was forced or accusing. Barhad was merely a quiet type of elf, scholarly and content to sit reading scrolls while others sparred. He was by no means shy or meek, but was level-headed and calm, the voice of steady reason whenever reckless emotions ran high. Though he was young compared to many elves, the third Prince was wise beyond his years, and would most likely become one of Aglar's advisers if he ever took the throne.

Thranduil winced at the path his thoughts had taken. If Aglar ever became King, that meant Thranduil was dead or had sailed. Since the Elvenking would never sail while the Shadow still had a hold over Mirkwood, his death would be the most likely reason for the Crown Prince to ascend the throne. Death through fading, more like it.

“Ada?”

Barhad's questioning voice interrupted Thranduil's brooding thoughts. The Elvenking looked up at his son, jumping slightly at the sight of Tollui, one of his advisers, who was standing beside the desk. He had not even noticed when the elf entered the study.

“Tollui. Do you need anything?” Thranduil asked politely, hiding his surprise as best he could.

The adviser's brow creased slightly in worry, but other than that he did not show any concern for the Elvenking's distraction. “Yes. The council was wondering when we were going to hold the meeting on the upcoming Summer Festival. The Sindar from outlying villages want spirits to be available at the festival but the Silvans wish to stick to tradition.”

Thranduil sighed, running a hand through his long golden hair. “Yes, yes. I remember...” He trailed off, gazing into the distance with a blank expression on his face.

Tollui waited a long moment before speaking again. “My Lord?”

Thranduil blinked, blue eyes focusing. “Yes?”

“The meeting?” the adviser prompted.

“Oh. Yes. Tell them we will meet tomorrow and discuss it.” the Elvenking said hurriedly, though his voice was heavy with exhaustion.

Tollui studied his King as discreetly as he could. Thranduil's face was pale and drawn, dark circles etched deeply under his eyes. He was shockingly thin, the bones obvious under his skin. While able to maintain a visage of strength in front of his councilors and foreigners, the Elvenking's ruse vanished when he was alone or with only a few others, his agony and weakness showing as terribly as a gaping wound.

“It's rather stuffy in here, and I see you've been working for a while. Perhaps you would like to join me for some fresh air, my Lord?” the adviser offered cautiously, looking at the pile of scrolls and documents that still needed attending. “Just a short ride in the surrounding forest?”

Thranduil looked ready to refuse, his mouth opening to voice his protest. Barhad intervened before his father could speak. “I think that would a ride would be wonderful.”

The scholarly Prince looked at the Elvenking with an expression that might have been hopeful, except for the worry Thranduil could see in his son's eyes. The Elvenking went into thought, trying to remember the last time he had gone outside of the palace for a reason other than duty and trade. It had been the day Luineth had died, and when Legolas was taken. Exactly eighty years ago today. The Sindar shut his eyes tightly, wincing as the ever-familiar pain ripped through his chest. How could they want to ride out today? Today, of all days, on the anniversary of Luineth's death?

Despite this, a small part of Thranduil wanted to see the trees, and smell fresh air outside the palace walls. He had been trapped inside for so long, the last meeting he attended being in Lake-Town sixty years ago. Luineth would be upset with him, for neglecting the trees for so many years. And the more he thought about it, the more the Elvenking realized he missed being outdoors.

Thranduil nodded in weary consent. “If _you_ want to go outside, my nature-hating son, I suppose that we _have_ been in here to long,” the Elvenking said.

Barhad relaxed, an almost happy but small smile appearing on his face. “I don't hate nature, Ada. I just like books more than trees.”

“And you call yourself a Wood-Elf,” Tollui teased, then went to order the stablemen to get their horses ready.

An hour later, Thranduil, Barhad, Tollui, and seven guards galloped out of the palace gates, making their way down the road that carved its way through the forest. The Elvenking did not pay attention to where they were going, absorbed by the shadowed beauty of the forest.

Even the trees around the palace held hints of shadow, struggling valiantly against the darkness but slowly falling. The elves' presences helped greatly, but could only strengthen them so much. Thranduil felt a new grief in his chest, only adding to the burden of Luineth and Legolas. How had things gone so wrong? How had Greenwood the Great come to this?

 _Am I failing, father?_ Thranduil asked silently. _Am I not strong enough to hold back this shadow, or is this our doomed fate?_

The ride was silent, the guards trailing respectfully behind their King while Barhad and Tollui rode at his sides. Thranduil let his horse go where he wished, following the steady path that still lay clear in the forest. He breathed in the fresh air, looked up at the bright sun... and felt no relief. The pain in his chest did not lessen. In fact, it had increased, becoming unbearable. Thranduil's vision blurred and his breathing became labored and slow. Failure, grief, and pain weighed down heavily upon him. It was all too much.

 _I'm going to die,_ Thranduil realized. _There is no question about it. I'm going to die._

He did not feel afraid or sad. He felt numb. Only numb. The Elvenking glanced sidelong at his son, who rode steadily beside him, then at his adviser who was also one of his friends.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried..._

Thranduil was barely aware as he slipped from his horse, the stallion neighing in distress as he tried to catch his falling rider. The Elvenking hit the ground with a thud, but did not feel the impact. Muffled, frantic voices sounded around him, but he could not make out what they were saying. All he could hear was his loud, labored breathing, and the slow beating of his heart. The beat was getting slower.

Was this it? Was he finally dying?

A small part of Thranduil tried to resist the beckoning darkness, but the rest of him had given up, letting him slip away. He was too tired. He could not fight anymore. He just wanted to sleep. Thranduil could vaguely feel hands lifting him, most likely intending to set him on his horse and race back to the palace. It would be too late by then. The Sindar was already going. He was practically gone.

A sudden foreboding feeling washed over the Elvenking, waking him as efficiently as a bucket of cold water being dumped on his head. Around him, his warriors, adviser, and son tensed.

“Orcs!” the captain of the guards bellowed in warning.

The warriors' reactions were instantaneous. They formed a tight protective ring around their King and Prince, swords drawn and arrows notched into bows. Thranduil staggered to his feet, shaking the guards off and unsheathing his sword. His stance was shaky, but adrenaline pumped through his veins, keeping him upright. The reason for his alertness stood beside him, his own sword gripped in his hand. Barhad was a scholar, not a warrior. He could fight, but not skillfully enough for a battle such as this. It was true that Thranduil could barely live, and barely wanted to, but he was not about to let his son die. Even in his weakened state, the Elvenking _would_ protect his family!

Thranduil's foreboding thoughts were interrupted as the orcs broke from cover, bellowing and roaring as they bore down on the elves. The two sides met, steel clashing against steel. Thranduil counted thirty orcs, and realized that luck was with the elves and they had run into a relatively small band of enemies. Thranduil's blade locked with an orc's sword, the Elvenking gasping as his enemy pressed down on him with great strength. His legs shook and his arms felt weak, barely moving fast enough to parry another blow. The Sindar tried to get his body to move and fight but he could not. The orc's blade slammed into his again and locked, the Elvenking forced down to his knees. He could not give up! He had to fight, just a little longer. He had to fight for Barhad.

Thranduil could see his son with his back to a tree, four orcs circling the two like vultures circled carcasses. Even from his position, the Sindar could see the scholar's hand shaking. One orc struck, Barhad barely parrying the quick blow and the other three laughed. Almost distanced from his own predicament, the Elvenking stared at the orcs, at their cruel smiles and sharp swords, and how they laughed as they circled their prey. The Elvenking's eyes flicked down, and he sighted the armor that the orcs wore. They were from Dol Guldur.

For a moment, just a moment, grief became rage.

Thranduil's expression twisted into a snarl and he slashed at his opponent, hacking at him with deadly but brutal blows. Startled by the elf's abrupt shift from weak defense to enraged offense, the orc fell easily beneath his blade. The Sindar ran at the enemies around his son, the enemies who had killed his wife and taken his youngest. They would not take another son away from him!

One orc lost his head and another had been stabbed through the chest before they had realized what had happened. The other two turned to meet the new threat but the Elvenking cut them down, shrieking an ancient battle-cry of the Silvan Elves.

Invigorated by their King's sudden strength, the elves quickly dispatched of their enemies, the orcs falling to the elven blades and bows swiftly. Soon, the three-to-one odds had been turned, and one final orc— a captain based on the design of his armor and helm— lay gasping and dying on the forest floor. Grim-faced, the guard captain strode forward, intending to end the creature's life. Thranduil's order made him halt in his tracks.

“Wait. We can question him.” Thranduil said. The Elvenkingstared down at the orc for a long moment and spoke, voice as firm as he could make it. “What have you done with Legolas?”

The Orc Captain stared at the elf, eyes flicking up to look at the crown of twined wood and leaves he wore. Then, the orc began to laugh. His laugh was terrible, grating and horrific, grinding against the ears of the elves almost as terribly as a Nazgûl's shriek. After laughing for a full minute, the orc looked back at Thranduil, eyes glinting with malice.

“The tree-rat child is dead.” the orc sneered. “He's been dead for years.” The orc stared at the golden-haired Elvenking, leering openly at the Sindar. “He was so confident that you were going to rescue him but you _never_ came.” the orc continued in a mock-saddened voice.

Thranduil's face grew steadily paler. “Shut up.” he whispered, voice too soft for even his fellow elves to hear.

“We were able to have fun with him for days.” the orc smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Screamed like a stuck pig, he did. Calling for his “Ada”.”

“Shut up.” Thranduil repeated, this time loud enough for all to hear. His hand was clenched, white-knuckled around his sword hilt.

The orc began to speak in a high, mockingly scared voice. ““Help me Ada. Don't let them hurt me! Please Ada, where are you? Please make them stop!” One of the men got annoyed with his shrieks. Cut out his tongue he did—”

“Shut up!” the Elvenking snarled, eyes darkening and voice shaking with rage.

The orc smirked at him, eyes glinting with cruel malice. “It was satisfying to see the hope in his eyes fade. I almost felt _bad_ for him.” His voice and face revealed the lie in his words. “It took the _poor_ little tree-rat a while to realize _Ada_ wasn't coming. I saw it when he broke. Those pretty little silver-blue eyes went blank, and he _gave_ _up_. He didn't fight us anymore. It isn't any fun when they stop screaming, so we slit his throat, and watched him bleed out, writhing on the floor _—_ ”

“SHUT UP!” Thranduil screamed, lunging forward and stabbing the orc in the chest.

The beast laughed even as blood trickled from his mouth, mocking eyes locked with the Elvenking's pain-filled ones. “You... didn't... come...” he gasped with a smirk, and went limp.

Thranduil stood next to his dead enemy for a moment, legs trembling violently. He stared mutely at the dead orc, vision blurring with threatening tears. With a cry, he collapsed to his knees, hands pressed to his face and shoulder shaking with silent sobs. “He's gone...” he moaned. “He's gone...”

The warriors and Tollui were silent, postures stiff and eyes wide as they tried to comprehend what they had just been told. In the middle of their group, Barhad was crying silently. He wantedc to go to his father to comfort him— and to receive comfort in exchange— but he could not make his legs move. He felt like he had become stone, immovable and cold, but was somehow also ice, and would shatter like glass if touched.

In the distance, thunder boomed, covering the sounds of the Sindar's grief with a loud crescendo of noise. Thranduil looked upward, up at the dark cloudy sky, and blinked as the first drops of rain fell. Soon enough it began to pour, the ground growing muddy and wet as the drops made their way through the sparse canopy of trees.

“Are you crying, Luineth?” he whispered, as the rain drenched his long golden hair. “Are these your tears?” His shoulders shook in another sob and he bowed his head once more, the rain hiding the tears running down his face. “All these years I clung to hope. I thought that I could save him, that he would live long enough to be saved. I promised you I would rescue him. I failed. Legolas is _dead._ ” The father closed his eyes, weeping until his eyes stung, his own words echoing in his head.

_I failed. Legolas is dead._

_I failed. Legolas is dead._

_I failed. Legolas is_ _**dead** _ _. They killed him. Ringwraiths, Orcs, and Men._ _**They** _ _**killed my son** _ _._

Before the eyes of his son, adviser, and warriors, Thranduil Oropherion changed. His eyes grew hard and cold, his back stiffened, and all joy and kindness left his face. He stood slowly, staring down at the dead orc with hatred in his gaze. He spun away from the corpse, back straight and strides commanding. He was no longer a grieving father, but a detached warrior King. When he spoke, his voice was harsh, filled with a rage and conviction no one had heard for eighty years.

“Let's go.”

Two words, which might have once been said with calm command or quiet sadness, only conveyed the _order_ that they were. It was the voice Thranduil used whenever he led his people in battle, a voice that demanded that all who heard it _obeyed_. Silent, the warriors, adviser, and Prince followed the stiff-backed King into the forest.

Looking at his leader, Tollui was afraid. There was no more hope or grief in Thranduil's eyes, all thoughts hidden in the stormy blue gaze. His face was emotionless, and and the weakness in his stance was gone. His posture was stiff and strong, portraying aloofness and confidence. He looked like Thranduil, King of Mirkwood.

To the casual observer, it might seem like a good thing. In truth, it was far from good. Riding next to Tollui was the Thranduil he saw whenever foreign dignitaries came to Mirkwood, the Thranduil that needed to be the image of power and strength. The adviser had seen this mask many times before, and would not have been bothered by it... if they were in a circumstance that required the King to use it. The only people around now were trusted warriors, the adviser, and Barhad. There was no reason for Thranduil to put on his kingly mask.

Except it was not a mask. Tollui could see that, and it terrified him. Thranduil had become ice, coldness creeping into his soul so strongly that his aloof, cold, detached mask had _become_ him. The grieving husband of Luineth, hopeful father of Legolas, and struggling elf of Mirkwood was gone.

All that remained... was the Elvenking.


	5. Village By the Sea

**Chapter Four: Village by the Sea**

 

_Third Age 2626 (385 years ago...)_

Legolas walked leisurely amongst tall, green leaved trees. He moved over fallen leaves and through brush like a ghost, leaving no prints or trace as he passed. The elf was in a forest in north-western Eriador. His destination was a small village called Blue Harbor. It was distant but busy, a village of trade that flourished near the sea. It was one of the many places he had decided to visit since leaving Mirkwood. He had nowhere specific to go after all, and nowhere to truly call “home”. The closest thing he could call “Home” was Mirkwood, and Legolas could not bring himself to return to the shadowed forest yet.

The last time Legolas had been in Mirkwood was the day he buried Ciaran. After wandering past the river that divided the most plagued part of the forest from that which was still defended by elves, the assassin had laid his father to rest beneath a large oak tree at the river's bank. He had needed no grave-marker, for the boughs of this oak were unique. They swept upward and curled about like a spiral, reaching up to the sky in a beautiful array of wood and leaves. The oak had promised the elf that it would watch over Ciaran's grave, making sure no one— be they elf, orc, or animal— stumbled upon and desecrated it. Legolas had thanked the tree and sat beside Ciaran's grave for a long while, singing songs of grief in a voice almost too soft to hear, alone in the woods except for the saddened trees.

The pain had been too much for the elf to bear. He could not bring himself to even think about exploring Mirkwood, the forest which held Dol Guldur and where Ciaran died. There were too many memories, vivid ones of Ciaran and vague ones of Legolas's mother that faded quickly and made his head ache. So the assassin had left the forest. He had not returned to Mirkwood since. Every other place had been explored, but Mirkwood had been avoided.

He had reveled at the White Towers of Minas Tirith, braved the mines of Moria, and been awed by the horsemanship of the Rohirrim. He had watched the merry hobbits of the Shire, sneaked into the Hidden Valley, and spoken with the Ents of Fangorn and the golden trees of Lothlorien, who had been quite perplexed by the elf that did not glow. Legolas remembered his first encounter with the purest trees in Middle-earth clearly two years after he left Mirkwood.

Flashback:

_Lothlorien was everything Legolas had imagined it would be. The forest was a brilliant mix of gold, silver, brown and green, every tree and branch seeming to glow with its own light. Even without touching them, the elf could hear the peace and contentment of the trees, their voices murmuring softly in the back of his mind._

_He knew that if he allowed it, he could hear their words from miles away. But the assassin was afraid. He was afraid to connect with such purity and beauty. Legolas could not help but tremble as he approached the beautiful trees, staring up at the healthy boughs and bright leaves with wide eyes. Slowly, he lifted a hand, pausing a hairsbreadth away from touching the closest tree— a birch. What if the trees rejected him?_

_That terrible nagging fear that he was tainted rose up within the assassin once more, making him tremble. He kept his mental shields firmly in place, blocking out the trees' voices as much as he dared. Their murmurs brushed at the edge of his consciousness, and he could tell they had not sensed him yet. How could they not, when he stood right beside them?_

_Hesitantly, Legolas laid his hand on the smooth bark of the tree, opening up his mind to the forest. Instantly, a thousand warm voices sounded in his ears, surprised but welcoming him. The light trees' voices were so much different than those of their shadowed kin. These trees sang of the forests, earth, and stars, filling the air with melodies of beauty and grace. Legolas found himself pulled into the peace of the forest, nature's song filling him with feelings of warmth and joy._

_Then he sensed a tiny undercurrent of worry from the trees. The elf realized that the trees of Lothlorien were all-too-aware of the lurking shadows outside their borders. The light trees were upset about the creeping darkness, and frustrated that they could not do anything except protect the elves beneath their boughs. While able to communicate with elves, the light trees could not “fight” as efficiently as their shadowed kin. They could drop boughs on enemies, shelter elves in their embraces, and warn the elves if any orcs were approaching, but they could not lash out with their limbs and kill like the shadowed trees could. Not anymore._

_The light trees knew that their power— and the power of the elves they protected— was slowly waning. The darkness threatening Middle-earth was draining them like a slow, terminal sickness. They would last for a long time yet, but they might never regain their former vitality and strength. And that terrified them. Legolas had barely comprehended all that he had discovered before a deep voice sounded in his mind._

You are a Wood-Elf _, a towering oak stated._ Only a Wood-Elf can hear our voices so clearly.

I did not mean to pry, _Legolas said, uncertain if he had unintentionally invaded the trees' privacy by hearing their innermost feelings and thoughts._

_Deep, light, and soft chuckles echoed in his mind and ears, the trees' joy and slight amusement making his worry vanish._

Worry not, young one _, the oak tree said._ It is a pleasant surprise to meet a Wood-Elf here. We have not spoken with Wood-Elves in over three hundred years. The last time Wood-Elves came, they were too busy to stop and speak with us.

 _Legolas mulled over this for a moment before speaking once more._ I am a Wood-Elf then? _He asked cautiously._

Yes _, The oak tree said simply._ Although your aura is curious. Where is your inner glow? _  
The elf shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling threatened and exposed._ I am hiding it.

 _The tree must have noticed his sudden tension because it changed the subject._ What is your name, Wood-Elf?

 _He was quiet for a long time, wariness clear in his violet eyes._...Legolas _. He admitted at last._ My name is Legolas.

Legolas... _the oak tree murmured softly. It's limbs twitched and swayed as it tried to recall a distant memory. It had heard that name somewhere before..._ It is a pleasure to meet you, Legolas.

_The trees noticed the elf's slight twitch as the oak tree said his name, and saw when he glanced around nervously, as if checking to see no one but them was around. Through those small signs, the trees could easily see that the special elf did not want his name to be spoken freely, and perhaps did not want to be discovered. They could sense he was not an elf used to being among his own kin._

_Since he was on the side of good and truly was an elf of nature despite his lack of a glow, they would respect his wishes. The trees would not speak of him to other elves, only whispering to each other too softly for none but the most attentive Wood Elves to hear. The trees were prepared to take any precaution to protect and hide this young Prince, for they could sense that he had Royal blood._

_The trees did not know if that was the reason Legolas did not want his elven kin to know where he was. They would not mention his bloodline even to ask him about it. This uncertainty about Legolas's reasoning meant that not even the Wood Elves should hear his real name. But what should they call their Greenleaf? What should they name the one who desired to remain hidden?_

_Hidden..._

Esgal _, the trees whispered, voices softer than the wind._ We shall call him Esgal.

_Legolas heard their whispers but did not speak, accepting the name. Being called “Hidden” was all right with him. He did not want his real name to be spoken openly, even by the golden trees. It was better that the elves who resided in Lothlorien only heard vague whispers of “Esgal” rather than “Legolas”. “Hidden” could be passed off as the trees speaking of something other than a person. “Greenleaf” was more likely to be seen as a name, and a name meant an elf was there, in the forest._

_Legolas did not want to encounter his elven kin. Not now, and not any time soon. He was not comfortable with the thought of meeting his own kind. Not yet. He had to know more things about the world— and himself— first._

Flashback end.

Legolas had explored the forest as thoroughly as he dared during the seven times he had visited it. Once he had gone close enough to the home of the Lord and Lady of the Light to see the two elves standing guard over the city. He had quickly surmised that the two were either close friends or brothers as their quiet teasing and joyful conversations reached his sensitive ears. The elves seemed friendly, open, and light, yet Legolas still could not bring himself to go any closer or reveal himself to them.

He journeyed through Rivendell with the same caution. The realm was just as peaceful and beautiful as Lothlorien, the elves as joyful as their kin. Legolas could not help but feel happy and slightly angry at these elves, who were safe while Mirkwood struggled against Dol Guldur and the darkness. Still, he decided that it was worth fighting the shadows so that others could live in peace. He just hoped it would last.

Although Legolas avoided elven company, he was not without interactions with others. The assassin would often travel to smaller human settlements, like Bree, with the occasional visit to larger ones. Large cities were only entered by sneaking in. Known by the name “Brian”, in honor of Ciaran's son, Legolas could easily find the odd job in villages, from helping on farms or in bars to killing orcs and Wargs that plagued the area. Legolas was unsure whether the villagers he encountered knew he was an elf. He doubted it. Most likely they believed he was a Ranger. 

He wore a cloak of mottled green and brown, which made him blend easily into the colors of the forest. His hood was always up, covering his hair and ears, and a cloth covered his face so that only his violet eyes were showing. He wore his bow and elven daggers openly, but had an assortment of other weapons on his person, hidden skillfully so that only the most thorough search would uncover them.

Abruptly, the soft forest air was replaced by a breeze that carried the smell of salt. Legolas halted in his walking, turning to his left where the unexpected wind had come from. The elf turned, abandoning his previous path ad he moved through a thick patch of tall bushes. His path now cleared of foliage he paused, breath catching in his throat. A few steps in front of him the land ended, swooping down into a steep cliff. And at the bottom of that cliff... was the sea. 

The sea was a giant basin of water, going further than the eye could see. Its blue waves struck against the cliff with great strength and might, sending spray and whitish foam flying into the air. The sun's light shimmered on the water, sparkling and rippling like a thousand gentle lighting bolts dancing in a deep blue sky. Gulls flew overhead, calling out to each other shrilly as they soared over the churning waves. The elf stared at the sea for the longest time, breath taken by the beauty and awe of the ocean. He breathed in the salty air, listened to the gulls calls, and watched the waves beat rhythmically against the cliff face. 

_The sea is beautiful,_ he thought, awed.

For a moment longer Legolas watched it. Then he turned away. Unaware of the sea-longing that should have claimed him, unknowingly protected by the mental shields he had in place, Legolas continued on towards his destination.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Legolas had heard many things about the small trading town called Blue Harbor. He heard that it was so friendly that there were no guards, anywhere. He heard that even Southrons and Easterlings would be welcome without question. He had been informed it was a happy, cheerful little town that happened to be quite wealthy and successful.

The town he came upon was anything but.

As per habit, Legolas stuck to the shadows and observed the gate that was the only entrance to the town. Well, it was the only entrance for most people. Two men stood guard outside the wooden gate, swords worn openly and scowls on their faces. Legolas studied them with a trained eye, not liking what he saw. The two men were muscular and mean-looking, glaring menacingly at any travelers who approached and fingering their swords threateningly. With a glance, the elf could see the guards were used to pushing people around.

 _That is not the warm welcome I had been told to expect,_ Legolas mused. _Perhaps remaining hidden would be best._

The elf circled around to the side of the town, studying the tall wooden wall for a moment before running at it. With casual ease he leapt halfway up the wall, finding grips and leverage in the seemingly smooth wood as he swiftly climbed the rest of the way. Reaching the top, he avoided the stakes on top of the wall by flipping over them, landing softly in an empty alleyway. Straightening his cloak and pulling up his hood, Legolas walked into the main street.

His drawn hood did not gain him a second glance as rain began to pour from the sky. He discreetly began to observe the people around as he wandered, looking like a man who knew where he was headed. The villagers' moods were surprising. Unlike other trading villages, which bustled with cheerful activity, this was was nearly silent.

The buildings were worn and old, many crumbling and looking like they needed to be torn down. The streets were cracked, more mud than cobblestone, and had the sharp tinge of unhealthiness. The shops were shadowed and dim, old, faded signs hanging from rusted chains. It looked more like a ghost town than a trading village. The people were hardly better.

The villagers avoided each other as they went about their business, not stopping to talk or interacting with those they passed in any way. They only went to the store they desired, bought what they needed, and hurried away. It might have been the pouring rain that caused such a dour mood, but Legolas had a feeling that the weather was not to blame. People scurried about like terrified mice, heads down while they cast suspicious glances at each other.

 _They are afraid,_ Legolas thought. _Why?_ The elf considered ways he could gain information but paused mid-thought. _Why am I even getting involved? Why these humans were afraid has nothing to do with me._

Yet he could not deny that he wanted to help them. Not every problem in the world involved orcs and battles, and the elf could not bring himself to not care about this many people's welfare. That was just who he was.

Ciaran always said that Legolas was too compassionate and caring, trying to fix things that were not his duty to fix. When a much younger Legolas had asked how he could fix anything in Dol Guldur, his mentor had softly chuckled and said “You fixed me.” Because of this piece of his character, Legolas did not know whether he hunted and slayed orcs for vengeance for Ciaran in a personal war against Sauron or because he wanted to protect the Free People of Middle-earth by killing the monsters. Either way, the assassin was finding himself getting involved in something that had nothing to do with him.

Giving in to his nature, Legolas found his way to the town's tavern. Taverns were always good places to start looking for information. Men's tongues were always loosened by ale and their voices carried in the small confines of the bar, easy enough for elven ears to hear even if they lowered their voices. The elf ordered a tankard and sat in a shadowy corner, able to see and observe the entire room.

There were twenty patrons in the tavern, including farmers, tradesmen, fishermen, and a couple foreigners. “Foreign” meaning that they were not from the town. Those who were not natives to Blue Harbor were rather shifty-eyed and wary, glancing around and nursing their drink with slight hesitance as they tried to take in the new sights around them. Legolas took small sips from his tankard, the alcohol not affecting him in the least— he could not get the slightest bit drunk— listening to the other patrons.

“— _wife just had a baby. Screaming little thing he is. The tyke's up all night bawling. I haven't had a blink of sleep in weeks.”_

“ _Of course he's crying. He's a baby. That's what they—”_

“— _can't understand why she's marrying him. He's a ruddy stable-boy! A_ stable-boy _! Surely she can do better—”_

“— _tell the truth I'm nervous about how this is going to affect my business. We all know that Drust is a dangerous man. Once the old man dies and his son becomes mayor, this town's gonna become even more of a hell than it already is.”_

And there it was. Legolas focused on this conversation, interest piqued.

“ _Quiet, Abelio.”_ a second male voice whispered, though the assassin could still hear them clearly. _“Drust has ears everywhere.”_

The first man— Abelio— scoffed angrily. _“Of course he does. Ever since Mayor Morcant got sick, little Drust has brought back this town's dark ages. I thought things were going good after the mayor had a change of heart and became less... corrupted.”_

“ _He lowered the taxes, lifted the guards, and made this an honorable city,”_ the second man said sadly. _“My grandfather told me about that.”_

“ _But now Morcant is dying,”_ Abelio said in a soft and foreboding tone. _“Drust has already hired those thugs he calls guards. It will only become worse when Morcant dies.”_

“ _Why can't we just arrest Drust?” the second man whispered. “Everyone knows he's ordering people's deaths and that his thugs threaten people. Hell, he's raised the taxes past the legal limit and he's been poisoning his father!”_

“ _Hush!”_ It was Abelio's turn to shush his friend. _“Do not speak of that. It's dangerous.”_

“ _Everyone knows it.”_ the second man muttered, almost sulkily.

“ _Yes. But there's no proof of Drust's misdeeds. He's too sneaky and underhanded.”_ Abelio sighed, almost too soft for Legolas to hear. _“We'll just have to wait it out. If there's one thing this town is good at, it's surviving.”_

The assassin had heard enough. Finishing his tankard, he paid the barman and left the tavern, reentering the pouring rain. The large building in the center of the village was obviously the mayor's house. That was his next stop. Legolas stayed with the crowds as far as the edge of the marketplace, then vanished into the shadows.

He approached the house— more like a small palace— from the east side, eyebrows quirking upward at the sight of the tall stone wall that surrounded the place. It looked like it belonged in a large city, like Minas Tirith, to hold against large armies. Legolas had the sinking feeling that that was what this wall was for. To keep armies— both enemies and rebelling villagers— at bay. Along with that, it would also allow the palace to remain standing while the rest of the village burned. To say the least, the elf was liking this town less and less.

The elf scaled the stone wall without any trouble— the guards were idiots— landing neatly in a beautiful garden. Any other time, Legolas might have been happy to see such a wonderful place of nature in a human village, but now he was just angry. Of course the inhabitants of the castle could afford luxuries while their people starved.

The elf looked up at the castle, picking a window to enter through at random. It was on the second floor, far from any of the lights that revealed that people were inside. He climbed the wall— Were the builders unaware of siege-defense or was he just that skilled?— stopping outside the window. A quick scan of the dark inside showed no one was there. Unsheathing a thin blade, he slipped it between the space in the panes and lifted the lock, entering the palace. His feet made no noise as he crossed the room, halting at the door and listening for any passing people outside. Hearing none, he exited, glancing around the sparsely candle-lit hallway.

A moment later he had slipped back into the shadows cast by an indented door frame, watching two guards walk by. After a moment's thought he began to follow them, listening in as he tried to discern where in the castle they were headed.

“I don't see why Lord Drust has us patrolling here of all places,” one of the guards was complaining. “No one's in this section except the old man.”

The other guard chuckled, smirking at his partner. “Maybe our Lord expects an assassin to come finish him off. How terrible that would be!”

They both laughed with cruel amusement, not caring in the least about their Lord's father's well-being. Legolas glowered at them from the shadows, enraged by their blatant disrespect to a man who was their elder. The guards halted outside a simple wooden door on the far side of the hallway, the complaining one opening it, looking inside, and shutting it.

“Still asleep. Fool. I hope he doesn't wake up.”

With that the two left, but their shadowy stalker did not follow. The elf stood outside the simple door, staring at it. He wondered who the “old man” was. Could it be Morcant, or was it someone else? Curiosity getting the better of him, the elf entered the room,

Legolas found himself staring at a man lying in a bed. The man was old, his face carrying more wrinkles than there were stars in the sky. His eyes were barely visible beneath thick white eyebrows, his back was hunched terribly and his beard reached the middle of his stomach. His face was pale and sickly, his skin almost blending into the white sheets that covered him. Legolas stared at him, unable to look away. If Ciaran had lived, would he have eventually looked like this? Withered, pale and _old_?

Old age was one thing the elf could not fully comprehend. While elves grew more beautiful with age, men, dwarves, and hobbits slowly wither away. They lose their strength, their minds, and after a few decades, their lives. Mortality was the Gift of men... but so many men feared it. Legolas feared it. It hurt to think that all mortals he befriended would eventually wither like this and die. Disturbed, Legolas turned to leave the room, hand resting on the door. Behind him, the old man stirred, waking, and peered at the blurry shape in the shadows.

“Ciaran?”

Legolas froze, mind going blank. _What?!_

“Ciaran?” the man repeated hopefully, voice raspy and shaking. “Is that you?”

Unsure of what to do or say, Legolas remained still and silent, not turning to look at the man.

Seeing this as a confirmation that he was Ciaran— How did the old man know his mentor?— the man spoke. “It's been a while. Over a hundred years, in fact... since you left. Since I— Since I forced you to leave.” The old man coughed and Legolas found himself stepping forward, only to freeze again as the old man's half-blind eyes focused on him. “I'm glad you're back. I'm so happy you came back to me... before the end. I didn't think you would after what I said and did.”

Legolas still did not speak. He could not leave, and let the old man think Ciaran was still angry at him. He also could not tell the man that he was not Ciaran, and that the assassin was dead. The more Legolas studied the old man, the more he noticed something familiar about him.

“I managed to do it, you know.” the old man whispered. “ I changed myself and this village. I made it an honorable, lovely place. Just like you asked. I became a man worthy of being mayor.”

As Legolas looked into faded hazel eyes, he quickly realized three things. One: This was the mayor, Morcant. Two: This man was Ciaran's father. Which led to three: Drust was Ciaran's _older brother_?! The elf had been told stories of Ciaran's youth and family, and how his father and brother were... shady men. He also knew of every trial and test the man's father had put him through while training him to be an assassin. “Training me to take out his enemies,” Ciaran had said. But the assassin had never said any names. He did not tell Legolas what town he came from, or the names of his father and brother. No, instead he had focused on Eithne and Brian, and the happiness he experienced there. So this... was _very_ unexpected.

To say Legolas was stunned was an understatement. Here he was, in a shady town that happened to be Ciaran's birth-town, talking to the man who ruthlessly trained his mentor-turned father, apparently had a change of heart, and happened to be Legolas's adopted grandfather. If the elf had been weaker he might have needed to sit down. As it was, he stood absolutely still as Morcant continued to speak, panting from the effort.

“My point is... I just wanted to say... I'm sorry.” the man whispered. Tears shone in his deep and faded hazel eyes. “I'm so, _so_ sorry, Ciaran. I'm sorry for what I did to you, I'm sorry that I rejected you and tried to hurt that Eithne girl, I'm sorry I failed you, I'm _sorry_.”

His voice held pained grief Legolas could not fully comprehend. The cruel man Ciaran had described in his stories was nowhere to be found. Instead, the elf was faced with a grieving man who had too many regrets in his life and not enough time to fix them. Looking at him, the assassin felt nothing but sadness. Ciaran was not around to forgive his father... so it was up to Legolas to do it in his place.

“I forgive you.” Legolas said softly, but loud enough for the old man to hear.

Morcant looked at him with half-blind eyes, the stress lines on his face softening and a relieved smile forming on his lips. “Thank you... my son.” His eyes closed, and he breathed his last.

Unsure of what to do, conflicted unable to bring himself to grieve, the assassin left. He made it four steps before he stopped, staring blankly at the wall. After a moment's thought he smirked, laughing at the irony. _I'm off to prove my tyrant of an “uncle” murdered my “grandfather”,_ Legolas thought without an ounce of humor. _Let's get to it then._

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Legolas had never seen a more disgusting human than Drust. The man was not ugly or disfigured, mind. His ugliness came from within. Indeed, Drust could be seen as handsome by many maids, with his jet black hair, neat jawline and pretty brown eyes. But it took only a moment for Legolas to spot the cruelty in those seemingly-kind chocolate orbs. After years of being surrounded by such cold gazes, they were easy to spot for the elf. Added to the fact that the man absolutely _seeped_ arrogance, apathy, and mercilessness like a a noxious fog and the assassin did not like him one bit.

The man was in what could be called the throne room, standing before the throne— Yes, he had a _throne_. You would think he was the leader of a country! Arrogant fool.— and looking down his nose at a quivering servant.

“He is dead?” Drust asked in a deep, resonating voice that commanded obedience _or else_.

“Y-Yes My Lord.” the servant whimpered. “Mayor Morcant passed away.”

Drust turned away from the servant so that he could not see his smirk. In his vantage point in the rafters however, Legolas did. “It's about time,” the man said. “Stubborn bastard.”

Legolas may not like Morcant for what he did to Ciaran, but he still felt the urge to punch his “uncle” in the face. He resisted the urge. Barely.

“Father's position has been left to me now,” Drust said coolly. “All of his power and privileges are mine...” The smirk became a triumphant smile. “For the first time since my dear brother rebelled and ran away, this city will be right again! I will be the one in power, and all shall fear me, like they once did my father!” A disgusted look came over Drust's features, his smirk falling into a scowl. “Father grew soft in his old age. He actually lowered the taxes that the peasants had to pay and gave them _rights_. He made black market deals illegal, and removed the guards from throughout the city. All because dear Ciaran disagreed with him and fled. Good riddance I say.”

Legolas glared darkly at Drust from his vantage point, not liking his tone. The poor servant was merely nodding along with everything his master said, wanting nothing more than to be dismissed and wondering why the new mayor was saying all this to _him_. The assassin hiding in the shadows felt very bad for the terrified man.

“Still, all of that training and skill, wasted!” Drust spat. “I always knew Ciaran would be a failure. A flawed, naive bastard, that's what he was.”

Legolas's violet eyes narrowed dangerously. He flexed his forearm, a small, lethal throwing dagger slipping into his palm. For a moment he considered throwing the weapon at Drust — Only close enough to scare him. Even though he was a murderous traitor, the elf could not just kill Ciaran's brother.— but banished the idea. It was better for him to wait, gather information, then act. Drust seemed like the type to monologue his entire life story and admit all his crimes to someone who dare not tell anyone.

Sure enough, Drust began boasting. “It was amusingly easy to acquire poison to put in my father's food. I am quite good friends with the town potions master. But everyone will believe dear father died of old age. Its perfect!” The man paused in his gloating, turning to look at the trembling servant. “But why am I telling this all to you? Perhaps its because there is no one else I can tell... and kill without question.”

Before his sentence was finished Legolas was moving, leaping down from his perch behind Drust and holding a dagger to his throat. The servant found himself facing a green-brown cloaked figure, his face veiled in shadows. The man spoke softly, focused on the traitorous man he held at knife-point.

“Get out of here.”

The servant needed no more prodding. He fled the castle, grateful to the mysterious stranger and terrified of what Drust would do if he survived the encounter with the cloaked man. Back in the throne room, Legolas could hear Drust's heart hammering loudly in his chest, the fast, frantic beat betraying fear where his expression did not. He opened his mouth and—

“Call for the guards and I'll slit your throat,” Legolas said darkly.

Drust's mouth snapped shut. “Are you going to kill me?” the man asked in a steady voice.

While he was many negative things, a coward Drust was not. Legolas could admit that at least. “I am not an executioner, kinslayer.” he said softly. “You will be tried and convicted.”

Drust chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. “Oh really? And how will you get proof? I will never confess and that peasant will be too scared to tell anyone what I said.”

His face hidden by his hood, the disguised elf smirked. “I don't need a confession out of you. You told me exactly where I need to go to get evidence of your crime.”

The man's voice was calm, but Legolas could see that he had tensed. “You're bluffing. You will find no thing at the potions shop. My friend will not have kept records of our interactions.”

“You'd be surprised.” the assassin said. “Businessmen keep track of everything, even recording more under-the-table transactions. It helps them organize their goods, you see. It won't be hard to find evidence of your purchases. But before I go... there is one thing I think I need to clear up with you.”

He shifted, cowled face moving close to Drust's ear. Out of the corner of his eye, the murderous new mayor caught sight of a green-brown-colored cloak. Being the man he was, and part of a town in which a lot of humans— and humans only— passed through, he jumped to the first conclusion he thought of.

 _A Ranger!_ Drust thought, enraged. _He's a bloody Ranger!_

“Ciaran was a greater man than you'll ever be.” Legolas hissed and knocked the man out with a swift jab to a pressure point.

The elf caught Drust before he could hit the floor, hoisting him into his throne and leaving him to “sleep”. He left the castle without incident, found what he required in the potions maker's store, and left the evidence on the law enforcement chief's desk. As much as Legolas may have wanted to see the fruits of his efforts come morning, it was better for him to leave now.

Without leaving a sign that he had ever been in Blue Harbor, the elf exited the town the way he had come in, over the wall. Once in the forest he melted into the shadows cast by the night, walking deep into the forest before pausing. He leapt up into the treetops, leaning against the sturdy trunk of a tree. In the quiet of the night, he mulled over all that had happened in the past day. So much had happened. He had stumbled upon a village in need, forgiven Ciaran's father in the man's place, exposed the mayor's murderer and most likely saved the village from itself.

But now what? There were so many more places to go, so many sights to see... yet Legolas found that there was only one place he wanted to travel to now. There was one more place he should explore. Decision made, Legolas turned south-east. It was time he returned to Mirkwood.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

The next day, Drust was arrested for periodically poisoning— thus murdering— his father, the mayor. The evidence was overwhelming. Letters corresponding between Ciaran's traitorous brother and a shady potions shop— left at the law enforcement's desk before they could be destroyed— pointed all of the fingers at the deceased mayor's son. The trial was done quickly, all of the townspeople wanting the menace gone from their village. Drust and his closest cronies were tried, convicted, and sentenced to banishment from Blue Harbor and the surrounding lands. Returning meant death.

As Drust was escorted out of the village and warned to be far away by nightfall, the man seethed. He seethed with rage and thoughts of vengeance, the image of a “Ranger's” cloak stuck in his mind. Everything had been going so perfectly. His father was dead and the village was under his control at last. But that Ranger had come along and ruined everything. His life, his work, his power was all gone. All because of some wannabe-warrior from the North. A bloody _peasant_ had taken his power from him!

As he walked stiffly away from Blue Harbor, Drust's anger grew. _Curse Rangers!_ he snarled silently. _Curse them all to Hell!_

His children, his children's children, and even _their_ children would never forget that a _Ranger_ was the one who ruined their family name and Drust's perfect life. They would never forget, and they would _never_ forgive. No matter how long it took, Drust's bloodline would retake Blue Harbor. And any _Rangers_ that stood in their way would pay. They would pay with their lives!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During this story, Legolas will have three aliases, depending on who is around him. It's sort of like how Aragorn is also “Strider” “Estel” and (eventually) “Elessar”.  
> Brian: The alias Legolas uses when the people around him believe he is human, or a “human Ranger”. He named himself this in honor of Ciaran's son.  
> Esgal (“Hidden”): The alias Legolas uses when the people around him know he is an elf. The light trees call also him this.  
> Daelas (“Shadowleaf”): The name that the shadowed trees call him.


	6. Rising Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in a while. To be honest, I keep forgetting that I have an AO3 account. O_O Yeah...

 

** Chapter Five: Rising Darkness **

_Third Age 2683 (328 years ago...)_

Rain poured down from the sky in watery sheets, drenching the forest of Mirkwood below. Legolas trudged doggedly on through the mud, grimacing as wetness seeped through his boots and clothes. He should have found shelter hours ago, when the dark clouds appeared on the horizon, but had been distracted by an orc patrol. Instead of leaving them for a later time, Legolas had tracked and killed the orcs. Now he was paying the price, stuck out in the rain as he tried to make his way to more suitable shelter.

Legolas moved along at a slow pace, grumbling softly to himself as he walked through the relentless mud. Elves could walk on snow, but mud? They sunk in mud like everyone else. It was decidedly irritating. The assassin would have preferred running through the treetops, but the wood was too slick and even he might fall from the trees' limbs. The trees around him were unhappy they could not trust themselves to carry him, so they did their best to shield him from as much of the rain as they could. Their efforts helped a little, but Legolas was still drenched. The assassin had a feeling that the Valar were laughing at him right now. With a huff he pulled his cloak— at least it was somewhat waterproof— tighter around his shoulders, determined to make it through the relentless rain. Had the ocean decided to fall from the sky?

A soft sound caught Legolas's attention and he paused in his trek, glancing around. Seeing nothing, he tipped his head, listening intently. There it was again— a whimper? The elf followed the noise to a tree with risen roots, a small space open between it's trunk and the ground. He knelt to the ground, ignoring the mud, and found himself looking at a tiny red-furred shape. A fox kit.

The little animal shivered beneath the tree roots, staring at Legolas with wide, scared eyes. Its fur was sopping wet, and violent shudders revealed that it was freezing. The assassin's violet eyes softened and he sat in front of the tree roots, murmuring to the kit.

“Hello little one.” he said in Sindarin. “Are you cold?”

The fox kit snuffled and tipped its head, stepping forward cautiously. Legolas waited patiently as the tiny animal moved slowly towards him, finally halting in front of his knees. The kit whined, nudging his arm, and the assassin picked it up, cradling it— him— in his arms. Even though the outside of Legolas's cloak was wet, the inside was dry, and the fox kit warmed quickly in his arms.

“Did your home flood, little one?” the elf murmured to the little animal.

The fox kit whined again and snuggled deeper into the warmth of his arms. Legolas's lips twitched in amusement as the small, fluffy tail wagged in content. He stood, the kit still in his arms and beneath his cloak, and continued walking towards shelter.

“Shelter” was a mass of giant overlapping trees, some of the biggest in Mirkwood. These trees were not quite shadowed, and the elves could still hear their voices, though they were becoming more distant and quiet to normal elves' ears. Their branches and leaves were so wide, and had so many layers, that the ground and limbs under a few levels were completely dry. Legolas could climb almost to the tops of these trees and not get wet. Also, they were in the more remote part of Mirkwood, where not even the elves usually tread. The river ran along the southern side, rapids forming a barrier between him and the darkened lands. He would be safe here.

The fox kit still in his arms, Legolas leapt up onto the lowest branch, climbing nimbly up a tree. Not a leaf rustled as he made his ascent, pausing high enough that if someone did happen to pass under the tree, they would not see him. Even though the tree knew this, it shifted its branches to better hide Legolas from below.

 _Thank you, my friend_ , Legolas told the tree.

It silently touched his shoulder in response, choosing not to respond verbally. Legolas hung his cloak over another branch before laying down. The fox kit made himself comfortable on the elf's chest, and both quickly fell asleep.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

The sound of rushing water woke Legolas. He sat up and saw the fox kit was standing on the edge of a branch, hackles raised. The elf peered down at the ground and gasped, staring mutely at what he saw. The river was swollen and raging, water thrashing and beating against the trees with an anger only nature could conjure. The water frothed a sickly brown as mud, dirt, and twigs were caught up in the flood, zooming downstream with terrifying speed.

Legolas knew he was safe up in the treetops, and dearly hoped no one was down on the forest floor. He picked up the fox kit, who was still alarmed, and stroked his back soothingly. The kit slowly calmed down, eyes closing as he prepared to fall asleep again. A sudden sense of unease snapped both of them awake. Legolas recognized the sickening, uneasy feeling he felt immediately.

_Orcs!_

The elf's violet eyes raked the forest floor and surrounding foliage, scanning the area for the creatures. Leaves rustled and he tensed, a confused frown crossing his face. Whatever was there was not an orc. A second later, five elves— four males, one female— burst out from the foliage, one supporting another. They scurried along the edge of the flooded river, racing towards the trees.

“Up into the trees!” one shouted, leaping up into the boughs of a spruce.

Two others quickly followed suit, leaving the injured one and his companion on the ground.

“You have to jump,” the uninjured one was saying.

The other elf— he had long reddish-brown hair— lifted his head weakly before saying. “...Can't.”

“Yes you can,” his silver-haired companion said stubbornly. “Thimben! Help me!”

The called elf leapt back down, glancing nervously into the surrounding forest. “Fael, they're coming...”

“I know!” the silver-haired elf, Fael, snapped. “Grab his other arm.”

Thimben did as he was told and together the three leapt, landing clumsily on the tree limb as the reddish-brown haired elf passed out. Fael gently lowered his companion onto the limb, glaring at the surrounding trees.

“Bows!” he commanded, and the other three conscious elves drew their weapons.

Higher in the treetops, Legolas drew his own bow, narrowing his eyes. He could see the orcs coming towards them, his eyes easily able to see them in the dark. The elves below him were tensely, arrows notched as they waited for their enemies to emerge. Fael shot first, his arrow hitting the lead orc in the shoulder. The creature howled and fell, his kin trampling him as they raced into the open. Five arrows flew straight and true but none of the Mirkwood elves noticed the extra shot, too intent on their own targets. The orcs kept flooding in— this was far larger than a patrol— and soon were firing back up at the visible elves.

Below Legolas, Fael was forced to duck as an arrow slammed into the trunk beside him. Only Legolas heard the tree's gasp of pain. As one, the elves began to target the enemy archers, picking them off as quickly as they could.

“I'm out of arrows.” a blonde-haired elf reported.

A second later Thimben said, “As am I.”

“We need to get out of here,” Fael growled.

“We can't carry Lain through the treetops,” the last elf— she had black hair— pointed out as she shot another orc.

“We're going to have to try.” Fael said grimly. “Uial, Heled, cover us.”

The black-haired female and blonde-haired male nodded, shooting sparingly at the orcs that were trying to climb the trees. Legolas watched worriedly as Thimben and Fael lifted Lain between them. He hesitated, crouching as he wondered if he should go down and help. He knew the forest even better than its inhabitants. Maybe he could—

A shrill battle-cry interrupted his thoughts, and a mass of elves emerged from the forest, attacking the orcs from behind. The elves perched below Legolas relaxed.

“Thank the Valar,” Heled breathed.

The larger patrol of elves made quick work of the remaining orcs. Legolas watched as their leader— a silver-gold haired elf, walked to the base of the tree, glancing up at those they had rescued. “Are you all right, Fael?” he called.

“I'm fine, Megilag,” Fael responded. “But Lain is injured.”

A glance at the red-brown haired elf revealed his was conscious but dazed.

“Bring him down!” Megilag called. “Carefully now.”

Legolas unconsciously held his breath as the injured elf and his companions descended, their perch unnervingly close to the swollen river. The hidden elf could feel the tree's tension as it prepared to catch them if they fell. He laid a hand on the oak's trunk, muscles tense as the elves grew closer to the ground. He breathed again as first Uial, then Heled, then Thimben all made it to the ground. Fael carefully handed his injured warrior to Megilag, balancing carefully on the tree limb. Movement out of the corner of Legolas's eye made him turn, and his eyes widened as an orc rose up behind Megilag. Thimben saw it at the same time as he.

“Look out!” the blonde-haired elf yelled.

Startled, Megilag jerked around to see the orc rising above him, dagger poised to stab down. As abrupt as a blink, an arrow was through the monster's throat. Megilag spun back towards the tree, looking for the source of the arrow. There was no one to be seen. The tree was empty.

This slowly registered in the Prince's mind and his eyes widened, staring at the raging river. The river that passed beneath the branch Fael had been standing on. “FAEL!” he screamed.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Everything happened so fast. One moment Fael was reaching for his brother's hand, the next he had jerked back and plunged into the river, startled by the orc. The elf thrashed in the water, unable to tell which way was up, as he was pulled ruthlessly downstream. All he could see was murky darkness, the brownish water obscuring his vision. He slammed into something, pain exploding in his shoulder as his fingers tingled and went numb.

The water was cold, colder than anything he felt before. He could feel his limbs becoming sluggish as the chill sapped his strength. Fael's lungs felt like they were about to burst, his lack of air making his already hindered vision grow darker. He hit another hard object— a rock?— and the air was forced from his lungs, water rushing in. The Prince choked and gasped, more water entering his air-deprived body.

He could not move his limbs anymore. He could not even feel them. The blackness was creeping in, overwhelming him and he stopped struggling, limp as the raging water carried him. He was tired. So so tired. He could not fight anymore.

Why should he fight? Why should he struggle to survive against odds he could not defeat? Fael could hear his heart pounding loudly in his chest, the beat slowing... slowing... He could feel the blackness taking him. Maybe he should let it. If he did... he would see his mother and Legolas again. Fael blinked, eyes forcing themselves open after a long pause. The shadows were overcoming him. He could not see anymore.

Then, the Prince saw a light. It was a small speck, slowly growing bigger as he watched it. Intrigued, Fael reached for the light, hand drifting slowly through the water. The light was getting brighter, closer, and the silver-haired elf could see a figure in its midst. The figure floated towards him, face hidden by the light that surrounded him and was him. For a moment, Fael swore that he spotted a flash of pale blonde hair. He smiled to himself.

_Legolas..._

He could not clearly see him, but the silver-haired Prince _knew_ it was his brother. The elf reached for his brother's hand, warmth flooding through him as his younger brother took his hand. Legolas was so warm. Nice and safe and warm...

And then they were moving through the water, the light and blackness becoming a blur. Safe with his brother, more content than he had ever been, Fael let the light fade, and allowed the blackness to take him.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Legolas burst out from the water, gasping as his head met the open air. He held the unconscious Fael more securely in his arms and swam with the raging current, only resisting enough to keep their heads above water. Most people would have tried to struggle towards the shore, but Legolas waited patiently, allowing the current to carry him and his companion down the river. Struggling would only tire himself out, and the elf knew that an opportunity for a quick escape would show itself. There! A shadowed tree stood on the bank with limbs hanging over the river.

 _Help me, friend!_ Legolas called.

The tree shifted, reacting to his voice, only to cringe away as it sensed the too-bright elf Daelas carried. The tree was approaching fast, the opportunity for safety soon to be out of reach.

 _I know his aura hurts but please, help!_ Legolas cried, his burden growing heavier.

The tree tensed, mustering its strength of will, and let its limbs droop over the river. Swiftly, Legolas reached up and grabbed the limb, the water pulling at him and Fael. Shaking from the close proximity of the too-bright elf, the tree lifted them both out of the water. The assassin could sense its pain. Though it was not touching the too-bright elf, Fael's presence still burned. Despite this, the tree managed to set them gently on safe ground. Once that was done, the tree shuddered and curled in on itself, echoes of pain ripping through it. Legolas touched its trunk gently.

“Thank you,” he said aloud.

The tree's limb brushed against his shoulder before going still. Legolas turned to Fael, checking the other elf's pulse. It was weak and fluttery, but still there. Frowning, the assassin bit his lip. Fael had a lot of water in his lungs. If he did not get it out, the silver-haired elf would drown soon. A small yip interrupted the assassin's frantic thoughts, and he turned to see the fox kit scurrying towards him.

“How did you get here?” the elf murmured vaguely, focusing on his patient.

The tiny animal yipped again, this time louder, before letting loose a short bark.

“Kurama! There you are!” a voice called, startling Legolas.

He was on his feet in an instant in front of Fael, one of his knives clutched in his hand with the fox kit held protectively to his chest. Before him was an old man in brown robes. The moment Legolas set eyes upon him, he knew the newcomer was... eccentric. His hair was a wild bushy mess, with twigs and bird droppings matted into the gray-brown locks. Thick eyebrows bunched together as the man saw Legolas.

“Oh, hello!” he said cheerfully. “I see you found Kurama!”

The elf glanced down at the kit, then back at the odd man. “...Is he yours?”

“No, no.” the man said. “He's just one of the creatures of the forest.” he peered around Legolas and spotted Fael. Instantly his mood changed, his eyes growing wide. “What happened?”

“He fell into the river.” Legolas said shortly. “I rescued him. His name is Fael.”

The strange man bustled forward, crouching down next to the elf. “Fael. Fael... I've heard that name.” He put a hand to the unconscious elf's forehead, muttering softly in a language Legolas recognized as magical.

The elf stiffened. _He's one of the Istari. Radagast the Brown?_

The man— wizard— finished his incantation and Fael coughed, water spewing from his mouth as it exited his lungs. The elf gasped, breathing deeply, before settling into a deep sleep.

“He'll be fine now,” Radagast said happily. “Same spell I used when Spinky fell in the river.” he rose to his feet, adjusting his hat before looking at Legolas. “I am called Radagast the Brown, the wizard introduced, confirming what Legolas already knew. “And you are?”

“Esgal.”

Radagast nodded, sensing no lie, and clucked his tongue at Kurama. The fox kit leapt out of Legolas's arms, jumping up onto the wizard's shoulder. Radagast peered up at the still-raining sky, frowning.

“We haven't had rain like this in over five hundred years. Half of the forest is flooded.” he glanced at the elf and nodded to Fael. “Carry your friend. You might as well stay with me until the rain stops.”

“He's not my friend,” Legolas said as he picked the silver-haired elf up.

Radagast rose an eyebrow at him as he walked through the mud. “Then why did you save him?”

“...Because I could. I was not about to let him die.” Legolas said at last.

The wizard looked at him closely, suddenly halting in his tracks. “You are an elf.” he stated.

“Yes.” the elf said warily.

“You do not glow.”

“Yes.”

Suddenly Radagast seemed older, wiser, and more dangerous. “The other elves do not know you are here.”

Legolas tensed. “That is correct.”

The wizard stared at him with piercing eyes, unblinking. The assassin looked back at him, chin jerking up defensively. Then Radagast relaxed, and the eccentric animal-lover was back. “All right then. Quick, this way!”

Legolas followed the wizard through an erratic path only the brown-cloaked man could see, winding through the trees as they grew slowly darker. The elf grimaced slightly as the shadowed trees hissed at the elf he carried. The assassin shushed them in return, patiently asking them to leave the too-bright elf alone. They listened, albeit grudgingly, refraining from lashing out at Fael. Legolas frowned as spider webs began to appear around them. Surely Radagast did not live so close to a Spiders' lair?

“The Spiders don't bother me,” the wizard said, answering his unasked question. “I live here because I am trying to heal the animals and trees. Many die from the sickness that the Shadow brings. I try to use my magic to heal them but... it is not enough.”

Legolas glanced at him, saddened by the grief in the odd wizard's eyes. “It is a wonderful thing that you are doing for the forest,”

Radagast gave him a small smile. “Yes. I try. I'm not as powerful as Saruman or as brave as Gandalf but I do try. I'm only capable of doing little things. I can't rally armies and defeat hordes of orcs, but I can heal sick animals and assist wounded elves.” He gave Fael a searching look before perking up. “Here we are!”

Radagast's home was carved in a large tree, pieces of wood representing a roof and sides attached to the giant trunk to represent an odd shack. Legolas entered the house after the wizard, lips twitching at the sight of the variety of animals that were scattered throughout the small space.

“Set him down here.” Radagast said, shooing a couple rabbits off of the bed.

Seeing no animal droppings on the space, Legolas set the sleeping elf on the worn mattress.

“Sit, sit!” Radagast urged, gesturing to a chair. “I'm afraid that I don't have anything to eat or drink right now.” He picked up a jar and shook it, its contents rattling. “Well, unless you like birdseed.”

Legolas laughed softly. “I'll pass, thank you.” He looked around the tiny hut, noting the staff up against the wall and the odd assortment of objects lined up on shelves on the wall. Everything was slightly unkempt, just like their owner. Legolas recognized a variety of animal food, along with several herbs that could be used to heal furry creatures. “You really do care about the forest,” he murmured softly. “But... if you don't mind me asking... What about your mission?”

“To help defeat Sauron, you mean?” Radagast sighed, settling down in a chair. Immediately, his lap was occupied by two squirrels, a hedgehog, Kurama the fox kit, and a skunk. The wizard petted the skunk absentmindedly, eyes blank and distant. “I know that I am failing in my mission,” he murmured, “But I am in love with the forests of Middle-earth, and cannot bring myself to leave.” He turned to look at Legolas with serious eyes. “What about you? What is your purpose here?”

“I want to help fight the Shadow here,” Legolas admitted. “I hunt orcs and Spiders that the other elves miss or dare not.”

“Hmm.” Radagast hummed vaguely. “Why don't you want your kin to know about you? They would be very grateful if they knew about their secret guardian.”

The assassin looked at him, his violet eyes glowing in the gloom. “You are accepting. They might not be. I am an elf that does not glow, can speak to shadowed trees, and has training they might find... questionable. I am not like other elves.”

“You fear rejection,” Radagast said wisely. “You fear that no matter what you do, they will not accept you, and might even fear you.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “I cannot honestly say that the elves would welcome you with open arms. A tragedy has made them wary of strangers.” His eyes grew sad. “The King's youngest son died, and his heart has grown cold. For now, it might be better if you continue to protect them from the shadows. They are not ready for you now.”

The grief in his voice was so potent that Legolas found himself wondering if Radagast was choosing to avoid the Mirkwood elves as well, or if he had seen a stranger be rejected. If the former was the case, then the wizard was rather brave for letting Fael into his home. If it was the latter, perhaps it was best to remain hidden and anonymous.

With this in mind, Legolas rose from his seat. “Perhaps I should be going now, before Fael wakes.”

Radagast glanced at the sleeping elf, eyes widening. “I believe that is wise. Fael is one of the King's sons. Do not worry, Esgal. I will not tell him your name.”

“Thank you.” Legolas said softly, and exited the house.

It was still pouring, and Legolas grimaced as he headed through the rain once more. At least this section of Mirkwood was not flooded. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was. His eyes rested on a dark shape in the distance, visible above the trees. The assassin scowled at the dark fortress. It made him uncomfortable that Radagast lived within seeing distance of Dol Guldur, but that was the wizard's choice.

The elf climbed up a tree, careful to keep his balance, and squinted through the pouring rain. The sight of more churning water caught his eye, and the elf could not stop a smirk from forming on his lips. He felt a thrill of bitter triumph and allowed himself to relish in it as he stood in the rain. With nimble movements he descended, deciding to wait out the storm beneath a thick covering of trees that was a half-mile away. The forest was not the only thing that was flooded.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Anger. Confusion. Annoyance. Rage.

These were the emotions It felt as Its fortress, Its home was flooded with water. If It could, the Darkness would have snarled and lashed out at the water that invaded Dol Guldur, but not even It could fight nature. And so the Darkness merely seethed, Its own anger heightened by the rage of Its master. The Darkness knew why Its master and his kin were angry. Many orcs had drowned in the flash flood that had overcome the fortress. Fifty-six orcs had died. The Darkness knew this because It could sense everything in the Hill of Sorcery, and through It, Its master could as well.

The Darkness had once been small and harmless, unable to give invaders anything more than a slight feeling of unease for many years. Then, Its master had come, and through his darkness, the Darkness had grown in strength, gaining a “consciousness” once more. Its master did not truly understand that, but the Darkness did not care. It did not care what Its master did. As long as he did not leave.

It remembered what had happened the last time Its master had left It. It had been stunned and wounded, feeling like a fleshling whose limb had been torn off. It had sunk into shock, Its power falling. Because of that shock and weakness, the Darkness had unintentionally affected the evil creatures within Dul Guldur. It had slowed their minds and weakened their wits, letting the two lights that had somehow hidden from It kill them and escape.

It had remained in shock until Its master had returned, the limb reattaching to the body. The Darkness had relied too heavily on Its master's presence, and still relied upon it. It was too late for the Darkness to break away and survive without a Dark master to keep It conscious. It was not capable of sustaining Itself anymore. Like an addict, It had drunk in the Darkness of Its master's aura, until It could not remain functional on Its own. It hated and loved Its master because of this.

But now It was mostly feeling hate. It could hear Its master talking with one of his kin. Its master was leaving again. This time, permanently. He was moving to a place called “Minas Morgul”, leaving his second-in-command Ringwraith in charge of Dol Guldur. The Darkness was not pleased. It refused to be left alone.

So when the Witch-King mounted on his dragon-like steed, uncaring about the storm that could not harm him, a large part of the Darkness wrapped around Its master. It would go with him to his new home. It would not be without Its master. It would not be left behind again.


	7. "He Is Awake"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those of you who don't know:  
> Mithrandir is Gandalf  
> Curunir is Saruman  
> Aiwendil is Radagast

 

**Chapter Six: “He is Awake”**

 

_Third Age 2711 (300 years ago...)_

 

“Adar,” Aglar said. “You do not need to attend this meeting. I could go in your place.”

 

Thranduil looked down from his seat atop his horse, considering his son's offer. It was barely dawn and he, Barhad, Bereneth, Tollui, and a patrol of warriors were going to Lothlorien. The Elvenking— along with Gandalf, Elrond, and Saruman— had been summoned by Lady Galadriel to a council meeting to discuss the growing darkness. For a couple years Thranduil had believed the Shadow was actually receding, when Dol Guldur somehow lost much of its evil aura. The Mirkwood warriors had managed to regain some of the land across the river for a time. The forest and fortress had not weakened for long however, and the elves had been quickly pushed back where they had begun.

 

The meeting was necessary, but Thranduil found himself reluctant to go. This would be his first meeting with Galadriel and Celeborn since Luineth's funeral. And he had not seen Elrond for almost two hundred years either. Right after Legolas's capture, the Elf Lord had offered to assist the Elvenking's forces in their search for the youngest Prince. Elrond knew all-too-well what orcs were capable of. He had lost his wife, Celebrian, to the monsters. Not through death, but a loss of her ability to enjoy life.She had managed to stay in Middle-earth for only a few months before departing to the Undying Lands. Arwen had left for Lothlorien soon after that. Thranduil had been a comforting friend to Elrond, his children being the same for the Lord's twin sons, but none of the Royal Family had fully understood what the Half-Elves had been feeling.

 

Back then, the Elvenking had refused his friend's offer. It was too dangerous for the warriors of Rivendell to travel so close to Dol Guldur. They were far from incompetent but in Mirkwood's dark woods it was necessary to know the land well, or risk walking into a trap. The search for the Lost Prince could easily turn into rescue attempts for allies that stumbled into Spiders' nests. Thranduil did not want Elrond to lose warriors to the Darkness.

 

The two elven leaders kept contact through the years, but the ever-darkening forest made traveling between their two realms unwise. More and more trees were becoming shadowed, openly attacking elves that were ill-prepared on the road. It was best for outsiders to keep out. Elves would be welcome if they made it through the forest, but other races... not so much.

 

The Elvenking's already wary tolerance of Men and other races had all but diminished after the Orc Captain told him of Legolas's death and cruel Men's part in it. If the trees, orcs, and Spiders did not kill any intruders that were not allies, the elves would be sure to find them and deal with them. Through capture, exile, or death depended on who dared to come to Mirkwood and their actions within the forest. Thranduil still traded with the Men of Laketown, and accepted any Rangers who came by, of course. But if a non-elven person came from the South, from the direction Dol Guldur, and their motives were any bit questionable...

 

The Elvenking shook himself, breaking out of his thoughts to answer his son. “No. I must go. You are perfectly capable of running things while I am gone.”

 

The Crown Prince hesitated a moment before he reluctantly nodded. “Have a safe journey, Adar.”

 

With that, the Elvenking, Royal twins, adviser, and their guards rode away.

 

LOTRLOTRLOTR

 

Nine people— seven elves and two wizards— sat around a large open council chamber that was formed among the golden trees of Lothlorien. Chairs were carved out of the wood, looking as if they had naturally grown there. The participants in this meeting were Thranduil, Tollui, Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor, Gandalf, Galadriel, Celeborn, and Saruman.

 

“We are gathered here to discuss the growing darkness,” Gandalf began.

 

All looked at the gray-robed wizard, expressions ranging from seriousness to concern on their faces.

 

“What darkness do you speak of?” Saruman said. “I see no Darkness here.”

 

Without a thought, Thranduil was on his feet, eyes blazing with rage as he glared at the White Wizard. “What Darkness? _What_ Darkness?! My people are fighting and dying against the Darkness! My son and wife were killed by it! And you have the gall to ask WHAT DARKNESS?!”

 

The Elvenking could feel Elrond's restraining hand on his shoulder but ignored it. He was shaking with anger and grief, though rage was the Sindar's forefront emotion. He was almost face-to-face with Curunir, barely noticing as the powerful Istar's hand tightened around his staff.

 

“ _Calm yourself, Thranduil.”_ Galadriel's voice spoke softly in his mind. _“You know of Curunir's ways.”_

 

Indeed he did. Truthfully, the Sindar did not fully trust the White Wizard. He never had, now that he thought about it. Radagast was eccentric and in love with the forest, almost like a friendly neighbor. He helped the elves fight the shadow over Mirkwood, doing little things and warning them if any Spiders or orcs were doing something shady that the elves were unaware of. Thranduil knew that Aiwendil was not the most powerful of wizards, but was grateful he helped where he could. Oddly enough, the Brown Wizard had become a lot more informative and determined to assist them in the past... twenty-eight years? Ever since Fael fell in the river and was found by Radagast, now that the Elvenking thought about it.

 

Gandalf meanwhile was a close friend. He did not take much part in Mirkwood's fight against the darkness, but the Sindar knew that Mithrandir's duties lie elsewhere. Out of the three Istar, Gandalf was the most involved in the fight against Sauron. He was the one who searched for signs of the Dark Lord's return. He was the wizard that seemed to be the most spread out and dedicated, yet still finding time to stop by and say hello to old friends.

 

The Elvenking's only problem was with Curunir. The White Wizard wanted power. He wanted the Free People to be brought under his rule, though he was hesitant to openly go against the will of the Valar. Thranduil could see Saruman's desire for power, hidden beneath a guise of wisdom. The Elvenking could tell that Gandalf could not fully see his leader's greed but did know that Curunir's motives may not all be good. Galadriel, Celeborn, Elrond, and now Thranduil were fully aware of the White Wizard's plans.

 

It was not like they would do anything, however. Saruman held no power over elves, and had no influence in their lands. His plots would not affect them. As such, they would keep their respectful distance from each other. They had been doing that for a while, only meeting when the White Council was called upon. The Elvenking was not a part of the Council. He had not come within miles of Saruman in a long while.

 

Now he remembered why he tended to avoid the Istar. Out of all the Elven Lords and Kings, Thranduil was the most stubborn and attached to Middle-earth. He and his people cared for the land more than their kin, who longed for the sea. As such, Saruman's questionable plots would not be ignored by _him_. If he could, he would call Curunir out, and reveal him openly. But Galadriel did not want that. He could sense it. Why not?

 

“ _Curunir may have strayed from his path, but he still has a part to play in this story,”_ the Lady of Light said in his mind. _“We cannot antagonize him now. He is still an ally.”_

 

“ _Your definition of “ally” greatly differs from mine,”_ Thranduil thought, still glaring furiously at Saruman. _“Why don't we warn Gandalf at least?”_

 

“ _Mithrandir must keep Curunir's trust... for now.”_ Galadriel told him mysteriously.

 

Knowing he was going to get no more answers from her, Thranduil backed off the slightest bit from Saruman, glare still in place. He returned to his seat, Elrond sitting beside him. The White Wizard's hand relaxed on his staff. Thranduil idly wondered how Gandalf would have reacted if Saruman had decided to use it.

 

“I apologize, Elvenking,” Saruman said stiffly. “I meant no offense.”

 

 _Liar_ , Thranduil thought. “Of course not.” he managed to choke out.

 

“Have you been able to discover the source, Mithrandir?” Glorfindel questioned, moving the meeting along rather than reacting to the tension between two of its members.

 

“No.” Gandalf stated. “Mordor is still silent. The Witch-King remains in Minas Morgul. His lieutenant is in charge of Dol Guldur. The shadow is growing stronger, and I fear it will not be long until Sauron begins to return to the physical world. He can communicate with his Ringwraiths, but that is all.”

 

“But how much longer will that last?” Elrond questioned. “Sauron will return. The only question is how powerful and influential he will be once he does.”

 

“As long as the One Ring remains lost, Sauron will never reach full power,” Celeborn said. “However, the growing Shadow is a great threat, even without the Dark Lord.”

 

“How do you propose we deal with the Darkness?” Tollui asked. “What else can we do that is not already being done?”

 

“I do not know.” Gandalf admitted. “With the threat of Sauron hanging over our heads, any victories we make against the Darkness will be meaningless. As Elrond said, Sauron _will_ return. And until he does, the Shadow will continue to grow. The Darkness cannot be defeated until the time is right, and Elendil's Heir retakes the throne of Gondor.”

 

“Then we must do what we have always done.” Thranduil said. “We must fight and survive.” _Why did I even come to this gathering?_ He thought, looking around. _There will be no help for my people from anyone here. Elrond would offer if I asked, I know, but I cannot accept his aid. I will not accept. The shadow in Mirkwood is Mirkwood's problem, and we must fight as we always have. Alone._

 

The meeting went on.

 

LOTRLOTRLOTR

 

Bereneth, second daughter of the Elvenking, sat stiffly in a chair in one of the large trees of Lothlorien. She was not comfortable here, in the peace and grace of the Lady's home. She should be at home, fighting for her realm, not stuck around waiting while her father attended a very important meeting. If Barhad had not wished to go to Lothlorien, the younger twin would not be there at all. Ever since the ride that ended with the discovery of Legolas's death, Bereneth had stuck to her brother's side whenever he left the safety of the palace.

 

Yes, he was the older twin. Yes, he was an adult. Yes, he could take care of himself. But the last time he had gone out without her, he had been in a battle he should not have fought in. And he had found out their little brother was tortured to death. Bereneth had heard from her father what had transpired during the unexpected fight. If the Elvenking had not managed to get out of his depression and stupor, Barhad would have died. Bereneth had already lost one brother. She could not bear to lose another, especially her twin.

 

Which was why she was standing there, ill at ease beneath the pretty golden trees of Lotlorien. In her plain green warrior robes and leather armor she felt out of place. This was a place of peace, beauty, light, and joy. She did not like it here. It was _too_ peaceful, _too_ joyful, _too_ light. Why did this place thrive, while her home suffered? How could it remain unchanged, while Mirkwood grew darker every day.

 

As a Princess of Mirkwood, Bereneth knew _what_ was preserving Lothlorien, but it still was not fair. As she thought about it, she felt a flicker of pride. Out of the three elven realms, two were protected by a Ring of Power. Mirkwood preserved through it's inhabitants' wills alone.

 

 _Perhaps we are stronger than they are,_ Bereneth thought grimly, almost bitterly. _We adapt and love this land while they remain unchanged and long for the sea..._ She stopped this line of thought in its tracks, chiding herself. _Stop that. It is petty to be jealous of them for being untouched by darkness. That is the reason we fight, in the end. To protect Middle-earth so not all of it is overcome by Shadow._

 

Deep down, the elleth knew that she was not envious of Lothlorien's peace, ignorance, and light. She did not feel like the Golden Woods and its elves were abandoning her people, or letting them fight the Darkness while they lived in peace. There was only one person in Lothlorien she was angry at. A single person who had abandoned everything for this realm. She had abandoned her family, friends, culture, and love for Middle-earth in exchange for a new family, culture, and a distant longing for the sea.

 

“Bereneth?”

 

The younger twin closed her eyes, not facing the speaker for a moment. Putting on her best diplomatic face, she looked up. Standing there was the last person she wanted to see. The person she had had a grudge against for almost two hundred years, ever since their brother was captured.

 

“Hannel.” Bereneth said tightly.

 

Her sister stood there in a flowing silver dress, golden hair shining. She was still delicate-looking and calm, the motherly, warm look staying in her eyes. When Bereneth was an elfling, Hannel was always the one she would go to if Luineth was not in the palace. The oldest Princess was the second mother of all of Thranduil and Luineth's children even to Aglar. At least, she used to be. Until Luineth died.

 

If Hannel sensed her younger sister's hostility, she did not show it. She sat down next to Bereneth in the empty chair. “It is good to see you,” the oldest Princess said in her soft, lilting voice. “It has been a long time.”

 

She was acting as if their last meeting had not ended with an argument. Her dismissal of the past made Bereneth want to slug her. Rather than respond with something very un-Princess-like, the younger sister kept her silence. Luineth looked at her with blue eyes that were the exact same shade as their father's. However, Hannel's eyes showed only their mother's kindness instead of their father's strength. The anger simmering in Bereneth's chest strengthened as she studied her sister. Their was no grief in her posture, face, or eyes. There was no anger or sadness either. There never had been, not even when their mother was newly dead. Did she not care at all?

 

“I did not even know you were here until Barhad told me,” Hannel continued, ignorant to her sister's rising ire. “I'd almost think you were ignoring me.”

 

If Bereneth did not know any better, she would swear that Hannel was trying to goad her into a fist-fight. Hannel did not goad and did not fight. At least, she did not fight physically. Debates were one of her pastimes, unlike Bereneth who preferred to just stab things with her sword. Hannel was waiting for her to respond, graceful and glowing as she sat beneath the trees. Just like everything else in this forest.

 

“You really adapted to the Noldor lifestyle didn't you,” Bereneth said coldly before she could stop herself. “So much that you _didn't come_.”

 

Hannel blinked, brow furrowing with confusion. “Excuse me?”

 

Bereneth exploded. She leapt to her feet, chair crashing down behind her. “YOU DIDN'T COME TO LEGOLAS'S FUNERAL!” she screamed in her sister's face. “DO YOU CARE SO LITTLE THAT YOU COULDN'T BE BOTHERED TO SAY GOODBYE?!”

 

Hannel's blue eyes were wide, shock etched into her expression. “What—”

 

“WE NEEDED YOU!” the younger Princess continued to shout. “WE ALL NEEDED YOU! BUT YOU WEREN'T THERE! YOU LEFT US!”

 

The older Princess was quiet, looking down at her folded hands for the longest time. Bereneth glared at her, waiting. How would her sister react? With cold aloofness? Quiet anger? Most likely she would lecture Bereneth about shouting and disturbing the peace of Lothlorien when she was an honored guest...

 

When the oldest Princess finally looked up, Bereneth did a double take, the remainder of her anger dying before it could be voiced. Gentle, calm, collected, emotionless, uncaring Hannel... was _crying_.

 

“You're right.” Hannel whispered, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I did leave you. I didn't help to try to find Legolas. I left my birthplace to go somewhere better off. I made a new family with my husband and the people here. But I abandoned my family in the process.” She covered her face with her hands. “I abandoned you and Ada and our brothers when we needed to be together. I left you on your own when we could have helped each other with our grief. Instead I ran back to Lothlorien. I was never strong. I was never aloof. I always cared. I just couldn't show it. I had to pretend to be the strong one. I had to try to keep things normal. But when you said I was not grieving... There were already too many memories in Mirkwood, and I couldn't handle it. So I left, without returning or saying goodbye. And—” she began to hiccup, struggling to speak through her sobs. “—the next time I heard from my family— it was a letter saying my littlest brother is _dead_. And I was too much of a coward to return to Mirkwood, even to attend his funeral. I was— so afraid— that you all would reject me. That you would accuse me of not caring again. Luineth was my mother, and Legolas my brother. How could you say that I didn't care, and claim I still don't care? They were my _family_.”

 

The younger sister watched her elder weep. Then, slowly, she set the chair upright once more and sat beside Hannel, wrapping her arms around her and bringing her into a hug. “I never really thought that you were unaffected by grief.” Bereneth said. “I was never really angry at _you_... I was angry at the world, and jealous that you could be so normal and strong when the rest of us struggled with grief. It hurts me that you did not trust me or any of us enough to tell us you were grieving and needed help just as much as the rest of us. You're my sister and I love you. I'll always be there for you, no matter what.”

 

Hannel smiled through her tears, now shedding tears of joy. “That means a lot to me, Bere.” she said, using the nickname the younger sister had not been called in a long time. “Thank you.”

 

“So...” Bereneth said awkwardly, struggling to think of a new topic to address. “Are you and Lachon planning on having a child?”

 

Hannel looked at the ground. When she spoke, her voice was choked. “My husband and I cannot have an elfling.”

 

The younger sister froze, guilt and shock overcoming her. “I— I'm sorry—”

 

“You misunderstand.” Hannel said quickly, though her voice remained sad. “We cannot have an elfling _here_ , on Middle-earth. No elves can anymore.”

 

Bereneth remembered her lessons and shut her eyes, shaking her head. “No elflings will be born when the Shadow is too strong. I never really noticed that there weren't elflings running around the city. Not since Legolas—” She stopped abruptly, pressing her lips together to hold back the grief.

 

The two sat in silence for a long time, simply watching the forest.

 

“He was the last, you know.” Hannel said quietly. When her sister gave her a questioning look she explained. “Legolas. He was the last elfling born in Middle-earth.”

 

“When the Shadow is defeated, the time of the elves really will end won't they?” Bereneth murmured.

 

“Yes.” Hannel said sadly.

 

The younger sister peered at the older, surprised by her sister's tone. “You sound like you don't want to leave.”

 

“I don't,” Hannel admitted. “Not yet. I may have left Mirkwood but I still love the trees. When the elves' time is truly over, I will sail, but I am not ready to leave Middle-earth now.”

 

Bereneth smiled back at her, relaxing fully for the first time since her sister had arrived. Perhaps she had judged Hannel too harshly. The two elleth talked for a long time, the hours passing by unnoticed as the sisters reforged the bond that had been broken so long ago.

 

LOTRLOTRLOTR

 

The Darkness was annoyed. Its master had left again, and It was not pleased. The separation was not as crippling as the one It experienced in Dol Guldur, but It still hurt and weakened the Darkness. The Darkness hated being weak. It stretched out from Its home in Minas Morgul, straining to find Its master. But Its was too far away for It to reach. Irritation became anger, and if anyone had been around Minas Morgul they would have seen the tower shudder and shake in reaction to the Darkness's rage.

 

Furious and reckless, the Darkness stretched further, savagely seeking for any other Darkness, any evil that could sustain It. It would not lose Itself. It would not let the Shadows It cast fail. Further and further It stretched, pushing, digging, seeking all around for a Darkness It could latch onto. Then, the Darkness felt it. It was distant, tiny and small, almost like it did not exist in this world. But the Darkness could sense it. It was another Darkness. The Darkness was pleased. It had found a new master.

 

Minas Morgul's Darkness attempted to touch the other Darkness, only to find it blocked. Anger reaching its peak— how dare anything keep It from Its master!— the Darkness slammed into the strange shield that surrounded this other Darkness. It bashed against it, raged against it, slamming into it again and again with all of Its strength. Something shifted, something cracked, and the Darkness shuddered as the thing containing the other Darkness broke, a single hairline fracture forming in the strange shield that had tried to hide this Darkness.

 

The Darkness of Minas Morgul reached out, touching the other, distant Darkness. Instantly, power rose within the Darkness, the other Darkness feeding the entity that had found it. There was power, so much power, and the Darkness could not stop, reaching farther, wanting more...

 

And the other Darkness awoke.

 

LOTRLOTRLOTR

 

Far away in Lothlorien, the day after the gathering, Galadriel was watching Thranduil's party ride away, Haldir at her side. The Lady of the Light sighed deeply as she watched the proud Elvenking. “I pray you heart can heal, Mellon-nin.” She turned away, walking towards the door. She halted when she noticed the Marchwarden was not following her. “Haldir?”

 

The elf still stood by the window, body rigid and stiff. His fists were clenched at his sides, his eyes were closed, and he did not turn from the window. Concerned, Galadriel walked back to him. “Haldir?”

 

He did not respond. More than a little alarmed, Galadriel tried to touch his mind, flinching as she hit a wall made of odd golden mist and fog. _What is this?!_ Before she could attempt to find out, the Marchwarden's eyes snapped open, gaze distant and blank.

 

“ _He is awake._ ” he whispered, voice rasping and soft.

 

Galadriel looked at him sharply. “What?”

 

Haldir blinked, swaying a moment before his eyes focused. “I apologize my Lady. I must have dozed off. Did you say something?”

 

“What did you just say?” the Lady repeated.

 

Haldir looked at her with open confusion on his face. “I didn't say anything.”

 

Gently, Galadriel touched his mind again, and this time his thoughts were confused, open, and all Haldir. “Something strange has happened here,” she murmured ominously, gaining a wary look from her warrior.

 

Leaving the confused Marchwarden behind, she descended the steps, hurrying to her mirror with urgent grace. Slowly, she poured water into the bowl, gazing down as she searched for answers. She saw no visions, of the future, present, or past. She saw no images of things that might come. Instead there was nothing.

 

There was nothing but Darkness.

 


	8. 7: Acceptance and Rejection

 

**Chapter Seven: Acceptance and Rejection**

_Third Age 2736 (275 years ago...)_

The forest that contained the haven known as Rivendell was peaceful and calm, even as daylight began to fade into night. The green colors of the leaves darkened in hue and shadows lengthened beneath the towering trees, but a glow still seemed to have a hold on the land, making even the darkest night seem bright.

Four elves and four horses were camped in the forest, far from the edge of the trees but not yet at their destination. Three were dark haired, with the two younger ones exactly identical in appearance. The final elf had brilliant golden hair, a sharp contrast compared to his companions and the dark night. One of the identical elves was currently speaking with the golden-haired one, voice soft but persuasive as he spoke.

“I'm sure that we can make it home tonight, Glorfindel.” Elladan Peredhel said, half-pleadingly, half argumentatively. “It's not far to Imladris.”

The Balrog Slayer rose an eyebrow at the twin, pulling his pack from his horse's back. “It is far enough away that we would be riding until morning. And if we hurried, and arrived in the middle of the night, your father will run out, demanding to know who is hurt and berating me for letting one of you be injured. I'd rather not be lectured for something that did not happen. We will rest tonight, and arrive tomorrow at a proper pace so your father doesn't get any more grey hairs.”

“We aren't _that_ bad,” Elladan protested.

The fourth elf, Erestor, looked up from the book he was perusing, eyebrows raised incredulously. “You are.” he said simply and returned to his book.

While Elladan gaped, indignant, Elrohir ignored the jibe against them, looking around the forest. His silver eyes lingered on each leaf and tree, sadness entering his gaze.

“Is it just me,” he began, interrupting his brother's argument before it could begin. “Or does the forest seem darker?”

“It's nighttime, Brother. Of course it is dark.” Elladan said in a teasing voice, even though he knew that was not what his brother meant.

Out of the twins, Elrohir was more sensitive to the world around them. He had gained some of his father's healing and premonition abilities, making him more aware of the Darkness and changes in the world.

It was this knowledge that made Glorfindel ask, “Do you sense something?”

“Other than a distant feeling of dread, there is nothing to worry about,” Elrohir said easily.

His emotions revealed the lie he told. Elladan could tell through their bond. As identical twins, the brothers had a low-level telepathic link between them. This ability ranged from basic empathy to communicating mentally, depending on their intentions and concentration. Right now, the older twin could sense his brother's unease, like a tingling chill running up his spine. However, Elladan did not mention his brother's concern aloud. If Elrohir thought what he sensed was a valid concern, he would tell Glorfindel.

“Perhaps it just seems dark compared to the trees of the Golden Wood,” the older twin said instead.

The four elves from Rivendell were returning from a trip to Lothlorien, where they had visited the twins' sister, Arwen. Travel between the two Ring-protected elven realms was easy enough, and a visit to Arwen had been long overdue. Ever since their mother, Celebrian, sailed, Arwen had remained in Lothlorien with their grandparents. Imladris had held too many memories of Celebrian for the elleth, so she had gone to the Golden Wood to find peace.

A part of Elladan had been angry at his sister for leaving, but he was mostly relieved that Arwen had not gone with their mother West. The loss of Celebrian was hundreds of years old, but it still hurt. Elladan sensed his brother's worry shifting, the dread about a distant threat becoming concern for his brother.

“ _I'm fine.”_ Elladan said telepathically to his twin.

The younger twin looked away from his brother. “Maybe it is the forest,” Elrohir said aloud. “There are no orcs anywhere near Daernaneth and Daeradar's realm.”

Although the Hidden Valley remained hidden— thus the name— from orcs and other servants of Sauron, a few patrols had been spotted in and around the forest that housed Rivendell. Whether they were searching for the sanctuary or were merely passing through, no one knew. Any orcs found were quickly taken care of by Rivendell warriors. Still, the presence of the creatures so close to the secret elven realm was worrying. It was proof that the Shadow's presence was growing steadily stronger in Middle-earth.

As he set up camp with his three companions, Elladan forcibly pushed all thoughts of Arwen, his mother, orcs, and other troubling topics from his mind. All that mattered now was sleep, and getting home in one piece. It was true that he and Elrohir had a bad habit of running into trouble outside of the Last Homely House. Well, this time, the older twin was determined to break that streak of bad luck. They were only a few hours from home. Surely they could make it through this trip unscathed.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Glorfindel was on watch. The Balrog Slayer sat on a fallen tree near the dwindling campfire, blue eyes scanning the dark forest continually as the night slowly went on. He was the third watch, after the twins had their turns, and had a few more hours until he would wake Erestor for his. The Vanyar was not sure whether he would wake his peer or not. He was not tired, and had no intentions to sleep soon. Personally, he agreed with Elladan that they could have pressed on to the Last Homely House but the forest was more dangerous than it once was.

Elrohir was right. The woods were just a tad darker than they had once been. Well, not dark, per say. It was not darkness that made this forest seem more shadowed, it was the worry of the trees. Glorfindel did not need to be a Wood-Elf to sense the trees' fear and alarm. The Shadow was not touching them yet, and most likely would not ever as long as Vilya's power remained, but the trees could sense the darkness closing in on the rest of the world. It scared them, and their nervousness made the forest just a little darker.

The fire slowly died, left to its own devises as Glorfindel sighed mutely, sobered by the path his thoughts had taken. Even in Rivendell, the shadow lingered, circling around the haven like a predator in the night. Speaking of predators...

Shadows moved in the forest, hulking figures almost invisible among the trees. A feeling of evil and darkness overcame Glorfindel, making him stiffen. Instantly, the Balrog Slayer was on his feet. A hand touching his sword-hilt, the Vanyar crept into the forest, peering through the trees. Only fifty yards from where the elves were camped was a marching horde of familiarly deadly creatures. The elf slowly backed into the camp, eyes staying on the spot where he could see the armored figures. He knelt beside his companions, waking them with a touch and whispering a soft warning in their ears.

“Orcs!”

The three dark-haired elves were fully awake and armed in an instant, facing the same direction as Glorfindel as they all watched the shapes moving beneath the trees. The orcs were far enough away that humans would not have been able to notice them, but their elven eyes could just sight the shapes moving between the trees.

“How did they get so close?” Elrohir hissed, sounding upset with himself. “I should have sensed them and awoken before this!”

“That doesn't matter,” his brother murmured. “Glorfindel, do we fight or run?”

The Balrog Slayer's blue eyes scanned the still-vague shadows, narrowing as he counted the vague shapes he saw. He glanced at Erestor, who held his sword in one hand and a closed book in the other like a shield. The elf was not a fighter. That left three elves to fight however many orcs were passing by. They were skilled elves, yes, but still only three against what looked like a small army.

“Stay quiet. They haven't noticed us yet. We don't know their numbers and they have the advantage in the night. Get the horses. We'll head north and circle around toward Rivendell. If they follow we'll lose them along the path. Mount up _now_.”

Blue eyes pierced the twins, noting the anger on the twins' faces. “We are not fighting.”

He spoke with the harsh voice of a commander, gazing steadily at the tense twins. The Balrog Slayer knew if he was not firm and stern, the two Elrondion would run after the orcs, regardless of the consequences. Hundreds of years was not enough time for their hunter personas and instincts to fade completely. Elrohir looked away first, walking quietly to his horse. Elladan's lips pressed together angrily before he copied his twin.

Silently, the elves approached their mounts, waking them with soothing words and soft whispers. The elven horses stiffened when they smelt the orcs but remained quiet, their nerves only shown by the widening of their gentle eyes. They listened to the elves forever, keeping their silence despite their fear. Still quiet, the elves gathered up their belongings, mounting their horses and galloping away. The pounding of the orcs' feet, covered the sound of their horses hooves on the path. The mulch and dirt muffled the hoof-beats further as the elves fled.

After a few minutes with no sounds of pursuit, Erestor relaxed, turning to look at Glorfindel. “Are we safe?”

The Balrog Slayer glanced at Elrohir. “I cannot sense their vile presence anymore. You?”

“No.” the younger twin said. “I don't—”

A whistling sound ripped through the air and Elrohir's mount shrieked rearing up and throwing the elf from his back. Elrohir went flying, hitting the ground as his mount collapsed, an arrow in her side. Shapes appeared from the foliage like demons in the night, charging towards the elves with savage roars ripping from their throats.

 _Ambush!_ Glorfindel cursed silently as he slashed at an orc with his sword. _They knew we were there!_

As he fought from atop his horse, who assisted him by biting and stomping any orcs that came near, the Vanyar searched for the twins and Erestor in the fray. Erestor was atop his horse, grim faced as he stabbed and slashed at orcs with all the fighting skill he could muster. Elladan was off his horse and at his brother's side. The twins were back-to-back as they fought the hated enemies around them. How many were there? Thirty? Fifty? Seventy-five? One hundred? Glorfindel could not tell. All he knew was that there were seriously outnumbered.

 _What I wouldn't give for an archer right now..._ the Balrog Slayer thought as he stabbed another orc in the gut. At least we listened to Galadriel and wore our armor home. Did she know this was going to happen?

He spun, slashing another across the forehead before stabbing another in the chest. He yanked his blade out, striking another with his armored fist. His maneuvered his horse closer to Erestor's dismounting and letting his stallion take care of some orcs on his own. The white steed was happy to do so, attacking the orcs with quick stomps and deadly bites. Elven horses may have feared orcs, but they were too loyal and determined to run. So, as it was with many creatures, fear gave way to anger, and the horses faced the ones that terrified them and attacked.

Glorfindel left his horse to it, staying near Erestor and watching the scholar from the corner of his eye. The less-combative elf was doing well, his horse more panicked than Glorfindel's but attacking with the same determination as the Balrog's Slayer's and keeping many orcs away from his master. So concerned he was for the scholar, the Vanyar did not know the twins were in trouble until a scream made him flinch.

“ELROHIR!”

Glorfindel turned in time to see the younger twin go down, his head slamming into the trunk of a tree with extreme force. Apparently the twins had been seperated, some orcs forcing Elladan towards the center of the clearing and others making Elrohir back towards the trees. The tree's shocked, horrified cries mixed with Elladan's shriek.

“NO!”

He lunged for the orcs that surrounded his unconscious brother, stabbing and slashing in a frenzy in his attempt to reach his fallen twin. Glorfindel swept in like an avenging angel, mowing through orcs with icy rage on his face. Many of the orcs purposely crowded together between the elves and their injured kin, jeering and unafraid as they faced the two elves' vengeance. Glorfindel could see one of the orcs lifting Elrohir onto his shoulder and running into the woods. A terrible sense of deja vu overcame the Balrog Slayer and terror gripped his heart.

_No! Not again!_

He stepped forward, ready to pursue, when Elladan's pained cry drew his attention. The older twin was on the ground, face white, with an orc's sword embedded in his shoulder. The orc jerked the blade free, raising it to finish the job. Glorfindel gave a roar and threw his blade, impaling the orc through the chest. Unsheathing a dagger, the Balrog Slayer slashed a tendon in an orc's elbow, making its sword-arm useless, and retrieving his sword. Standing over Elladan, Glorfindel was a blur, beating back any orcs that came near.

The orcs disengaged from Erestor, who was still on his horse with a moderately-sized pile of corpses around him, running off. Those fighting Glorfindel did not have that opportunity. He cut them down. It did not matter if they were fighting or running. The evil creatures had earned the wrath of the Balrog Slayer, and he attacked without mercy.

After the final orc fell to Glorfindel's vengeance-fulled blade, the Vanyar joined Erestor at the remaining twin's side. The scholar had bound his wound, the cloth ripped from the scholar's cloak stained red. Elladan's breathing was harsh and his face pale, sweat beading on his brow. His silver, feverish eyes— the blade must have been poisoned— met Glorfindel's blue ones, wide with fear and desperation.

“G-Glorfindel.” Elladan panted. “They t-took h-him. E-El—”

The Balrog Slayer knelt down next to the younger elf, squeezing his shoulder gently. “I'll find him.” he promised. He stood, looking sharply at Erestor. “Get him to Lord Elrond.”

The other elf hesitated. “You're going after them alone?”

Glorfindel nodded, swiftly sitting atop his horse. “Yes. Get him home and send a patrol after me, all right?”

Erestor nodded determinedly, pulling Elladan up onto his horse. The older twin gave a pained gasp and swiftly passed out. It was one of the few times Glorfindel had ever heard the stoic scholar curse.

Erestor mounted gracefully, locking eyes with the Balrog Slayer. “Good hunting.”

Not watching them vanish down the path, the Balrog Slayer rode away, pursuing the remainder of the small army that had captured his friend's son.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Dark clouds covered the sky, promising a violent storm later in the day. It was so dark it was practically night, but Legolas was not bothered by the gloom that hung over the normally bright forest of Imladris. He was used to traveling in shadowed places. His most common haunt was Mirkwood after all. He preferred the shadowy woods of Mirkwood rather than the busy villages or Man or the bright realms of the other elves, but still traveled much at random times or when the need to get away struck him.

He remained a silent protector of those whose paths crossed his, hunting orcs, stopping raids, and even carrying injured people to the nearest civilization. He would accept thanks and shelter with humans but never revealed himself to elves or Wizards. Radagast was an exception, and had remained a mix of close friend and eccentric uncle to the young elf. Fifty-three years after his first encounter with the Brown Wizard, his words of caution remained in Legolas's mind. The same doubtful, worrying thoughts repeated themselves in the assassin's head.

What if the elves did not accept him? What if they thought he was unnatural? What if his family were exiled from the elven realms? What if they had left his mother and him to die at the orcs hands? Closing his eyes, Legolas struggled for the thousandth time in his mind, trying to retrieve a memory, any memory, of his family and his life before Dol Guldur. All he received was the terrible image of his mother, surrounded by orcs, Grihtz's sword raised to slay her where she knelt.

The assassin flinched and shook his head, clearing his mind of the terrible, half-forgotten memory. A distant pounding caught his attention and he went still. He recognized the sound of marching feet well enough. Without a second thought the elf leapt straight upward, landing neatly on the tree limb high above the ground. A moment later the trees sensed the incoming creatures and hissed warnings.

_Orcs._

_I know_ , Legolas responded, bow in his hand with an arrow notched in the string.

The orcs emerged from the shadows, running quickly but uniformly beneath Legolas's branch. The assassin counted fifteen orcs in the band. He studied the group of orcs carefully, noting the way they looked over their shoulder and crowded around an orc in the center. He appeared to be carrying something.

A glint in the gloom caught his attention, his sharp eyes zeroing in on the flicker of light. Two of the orcs were carrying what appeared to be a sword. The sword was too well-crafted to be of orc-make, and too fine to have been created in the forges of Man. Why would orcs be carrying an elvish blade? Unless...

The hiding assassin gripped the tree limb tightly, crouching lower on the branch. He let the arrow droop out from the string, now harmless. There were too many orcs to shoot without them fleeing or retaliating. Also, Legolas did not know why they had captured an elf. If they were bringing him somewhere on their master's orders, the orcs would not kill their captive. But if the elf did not need to live or he was only a hostage, they would slay him the moment enemy forces arrived.

Moving through the treetops, Legolas followed the orcs as they ran on the ground, glancing nervously behind them. The assassin got a glimpse of their captive, anger flaring in his chest as he saw the unconscious elf's wounds. Legolas could see a gash on the elf's leg, and blood was drying on his cheek from a cut on his temple. The dark hair and blue armor suggested he was a warrior of Rivendell.

Based on the orcs' speed and hasty running, the elf was with other elves when he was captured, most likely on patrol with his fellow warriors. Legolas idly wondered if the Rivendell elves had been tracking the orcs or had been ambushed. He pushed these thoughts from his mind, focusing on keeping his prey in sight. Despite the many differences between his own capture and this, Legolas was terribly reminded of his own kidnapping. He knew that whatever awaited the elf at the end of his journey would not be pleasant. It did not matter who the elf was or how he had ended up in his current predicament. All that mattered was getting him away from the orcs. Legolas _had_ to rescue him.

The assassin leapt silently from branch to branch before pausing, the trees' whispering softly around him. Their vague calls and emotions prodded at the Wood elf like a child poking his arm to get his attention. He felt their mix of excitement, encouragement, and worry as they murmured and breathed, unwilling to move and reveal the position of the one that had caught their attention. The thoughts and emotions the trees expressed were one Legolas had quickly learned to associate with elves. There was another elf nearby.

Legolas jumped further upward, peering down through the branches as a figure on horseback moved quickly— but not too quickly— after the orcs, staying out of their sight. The elf paused, peering down at the other in silence. He was another warrior in blue armor, his golden hair unnervingly bright amidst in the trees. The elf was good at hiding from those he pursued however, keeping back as he stalked the horde. His horse was as silent and intent as his master, ears twitching and steps silent as they followed the orcs.

 _The Rivendell elf's ally is also tracking the orcs_ , the assassin thought. _He must be hanging back until reinforcements arrive, or is waiting until he can get his friend out without alerting the orcs._ _I need not get involved in this and expose myself... but I'm going to anyway. If they need my help, I will assist. I will not stand by and watch them be slaughtered._

With this in mind, Legolas traveled quickly through the trees, following the orcs and the elf tracking them, an unseen guardian in the treetops.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

The orcs stopped for the night, camped at the edge of the woods, just outside the Misty Mountains. The cloudiness of the day had let them travel throughout it, only stopping halfway into the next night. Much distance had been put between them and Rivendell, and Glorfindel hoped that the patrol of elves Erestor had sent would be able to find their trail. He knew that help would be a long time in coming, though. A steady rain had washed away much of the trail. The orcs had not set up camp at all in the many hours they had traveled. They had ony rested long enough for Glorfindel— carefully hidden in the trees— to eat some lembas and let his horse take a break.

His horse was waiting patiently further back, but close enough if he had to grab Elrohir and run. At this point, this might be his only option. Help was a long way behind them and with this cloudy weather the orcs would be able to travel far. If there was a chance for Glorfindel to rescue the twin tonight, he had to take it. He would not leave Elroir in the orcs' hands for long. He could not let what had happened to Celebrian happen to her son. If Elrohir was tortured and broken like she was... The Vanyar forced himself not to finish that line of thought.

The orcs were in small groups, without tents or fire. They merely stayed beneath the lonely moon, brooding about the slight chill but not complaining. Whining about being hungry or cold would be punished violently. Glorfindel held his breath as an orc— most likely the leader of the band— approached Elrohir. He peered down at the still-unconscious elf with cruel yellow eyes, teeth bared in a yellowed snarl.

“We sure this is one of Elrond's sons?” the orc growled, glaring at the orc that had been carrying the elf.

The orc nodded firmly, grinning and revealing dirty fangs. “Yeah. 'e was one o' those twins.”

The leader smirked, kicking the elf in the hope of getting a reaction out of him. Elrohir did not even twitch, so deeply unconscious he was.

The orc snorted. “The master wants 'im for leverage. We can't kill 'im.”

He sounded so disappointed that a chill went up Glorfindel's spine. He always forgot how vile, cruel, and savage orcs were until he encountered them again. Another orc stepped up beside the first, a hateful expression on his face.

“The master said 'e wants 'im alive.” the orc emphasized. “ _Alive_ , 'e said. 'e didn't say _uninjured_.”

The leader's face brightened like a predator that had spotted wounded prey. Cheers went up through the surrounding orcs' as they realized what their fellow soldier was saying.

“Cut off his ears!”

“Whip him 'til 'e screams!”

“Burn him!”

Shouts begging for violence and torture sounded through the air. Glorfindel could feel himself trembling, from both rage and fear. Rage that the orcs could so casually wish for harm upon another and fear for Elrohir.

“Let's carve up 'is pretty face, shall we?” the orc leader bellowed, and received yells of bloodlust-filled joy from his kin.

The orc knelt next to the limp elf, unsheathing a knife from its sheath. Glorfindel's heart pounded as he watched. There was no time to plan. He could not stand here and watch Elrohir be tortured and mutilated. He had to act now! The knife was making a slow descent, not stabbing, merely lowering, as the orc leader prepared to cut the helpless elf.

Before the knife could touch the unconscious twin's skin, an arrow appeared in the orc leader's throat. He tipped, falling to the ground, and fourteen orcs and one elf stared at him in mute astonishment. Glorfindel blinked and someone was _there_ , twin daggers plunging into the orcs nearest Elrohir.

In the trees, the Balrog Slayer tensed, reaching for his sword as he prepared to enter what had to be a useless fight. There were at least fifteen orcs left! What was the figure thinking?! To his surprise, one of the orcs _screamed_. It was a sound of pure terror, terror that was only emphasized by the _fear_ on the orc's face. The orc was _afraid_?!

“Hoshvuras!” the orc shrieked.

Glorfindel did not know what the orc had said, but the cloaked figure did. News of the guardian of the forest, slayer of orcs, had not reached the lves, but it had reached the ears of the ones he hunted. The “Hoshvuras”, Silent Slayer in Westron, was almost like a ghost tale in the servants' of Sauron's ranks. A mysterious creature of the forest, able to turn invisible and melt into the shadows it fought, Hoshvuras was a Spirit of Death and Vengeance, his only purpose to slay the servants of the Shadow. None had ever escaped Hoshvuras, but all orcs knew him when they were unlucky enough to see him. After all, what creature other than Hoshvuras could have such unnaturally glowing violet eyes.

The figure's movements were graceful , almost like a dancer's. The orcs fell around him like grass to a scythe, frozen as if unable to flee or fight. Glorfindel could not see when the mysterious stranger struck them or where, but as he ghosted through them the orcs _all_ died. Any orcs who tried to run and were not trampled were shot down by arrows. Those that tried to rush and fight the figure were cut down with ease.

The figure moved like water, never stopping, never blocking, only killing, killing, killing, each strike deadly. Glorfindel watched with shock, awe, and a little fear as the figure carved through the horde of orcs as easily as a fish swam through water. Another unnerving element was how _silent_ he was. He did not grunt or shout like his enemies, only fighting with an eerie silence. Not even a clang of metal on metal was heard. If Glorfindel did not know any better, he could have sworn it was a ghost. He almost thought it was a ghost that had appeared when he caught a glimpse of glowing violet eyes.

The figure stood in the center of the bloody battlefield, unmoving except for his bright violet eyes, which scanned the area for more enemies. Finding none, he knelt beside Elrohir, reaching for him. Glorfindel stiffened but quickly relaxed as the figure merely checked the dark haired elf for a pulse. The half-elf's rescuer tensed and looked up, violet eyes meeting the Balrog Slayer's blue ones.

The cloaked figure shifted slightly, poised to flee, but his hand hovered near Elrohir almost protectively. Before the rescuer could choose between flight and staying with the elf he had saved, Glorfindel emerged from the trees. His hands were held up in a peaceful gesture, away from his sword, and he kept his posture relaxed and nonthreatening.

“Its alright. I'm a friend.” the Vanyar said.

The cloaked elf— for only an elf could fight in such a smooth, beautiful, and deadly way— did not put down his guard, but he did not flee either. Seeing this as permission to approach, Glorfindel knelt next to the elf and Elrohir, quickly checking his wounds. The Balrog Slayer looked at his silent companion, unable to see any features except his luminous violet eyes. He could not see a glow on the other's skin, but deep down, the Vanyar knew the other was an elf.

“I have bandages and some herbs in my pack,” he said to the violet-eyed elf. “Can you stay with him while I get them?”

The cloaked elf nodded, still not speaking. Glorfindel smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way and hurried to where his horse was tethered. He quickly grabbed the pack, leading his horse along with him as his mind reeled.

_Who is that elf? Why does he have violet eyes? How can he fight like that? How did he kill all those orcs? Thranduil has been saying that his patrols keep finding piles of burning orc and Spider bodies in Mirkwood. Could he be the one slaying them? Why is he doing that? Where's he from? Why has he never revealed himself? Who is he?_

Back at the camp, Legolas sat with the unconscious son of Elrond, panic freezing his limbs and keeping him from moving. The self-preserving and panicked part of him screamed that they needed to run before the golden-haired elf— Lord Glorfindel of all people!— returned, but the calm, helpful part insisted that he could not leave the wounded twin alone. Not that he could move anyway. He was paralyzed by fear. Legolas's heart was pounding loudly in his chest, so loud he was sure the whole forest could hear its frantic beat.

Frankly, he did not know why he was not running yet. Perhaps his sense of duty and determination to stay with the twin until he knew the Elrondion was in safe hands was greater than his panic at being discovered by an elf. Not just any elf, but an ancient Elf Lord. If Legolas had any less control, he would be hyperventilating. Saving the elf from being mutilated had been instinct. Legolas had not stopped to think about the other elf that had been pursuing the orcs. He would not respect himself if he had cared about remaining hidden more than saving a life. He had enough of a calm mind to gently clean and put pressure on the twin's reopened wounds but now that the battle was done and the elf out of immediate danger...

 _He saw me. He saw me. He saw me._ The thought repeated itself in his head. _Oh Valar what do I_ _ **do**_ _? Should I run?_ He instantly rejected the thought. He was not going to run like a scared child. _I'll be fine. What's the worst he could do?..._

_...He could reject me. Please let me be paranoid. Please don't let the first of my kind that I meet think I'm strange._

It was then that Glorfindel returned, instantly setting to work wrapping the twin's wounds. Legolas opened his mouth, unwilling to distract the elf. He closed it, opened it once more, and forced himself to speak.

“What's his name?”

The Balrog Slayer glanced at him before returning his gaze to the twin. “He is Elrohir, younger twin son of Elrond. You did not know?”

“No.” Legolas said, uncomfortable.

“I am Glorfindel of Imladris.” the golden-haired elf introduced.

“My name is Esgal.” Legolas said instinctively.

He did not say where he was from. He was from nowhere and everywhere. Glorfindel did not comment on his lack of mentioning where he was from, checking Elrohir's pulse one more time before rising to his feet.

“We can move him safely. We have to get him back to Imladris.”

He whistled sharply and a horse trotted out from the trees, waiting patiently beside his rider. Glorfindel lifted Elrohir onto the stallion's back. He glanced back at “Esgal” frowning slightly.

“You have no inner light,” Glorfindel stated, brow furrowed.

“Yes I do,” Legolas said in a rush. “I'm suppressing it.”

He still had the startled-deer look on his face, wariness and tension in his every muscle and movement. Still, he remained at Elrohir's side, lingering protectiveness overriding his discomfort with being close to the Vanyar. Glorfindel realized the elf was quite young. He also realized that the ellon's nervousness was not to do with him personally. It was almost like the cloaked elf was wary of his own kind.

 _How can that be?_ _Was he born with those eyes and abandoned because of them?_ The Balrog Slayer thought.

His soul rebelled against the thought that an elf would abandon their child because of something so trivial, but he knew that such actions were common for the race of Men. So he merely nodded, mounting up on his horse behind the limp Elrohir.

“Thank you, mellon-nin, for your help. I would like to linger and hear your tale but I need to get Elrohir to his father. Perhaps at a different time we may introduce ourselves properly.”

He gave Legolas a sincere, grateful smile. That look, absent of wariness or fear, was instead openly grateful and calm. That open expression was one of acceptance, and it was all Legolas needed to relax.

“You... don't think I'm unnatural?” he asked hesitantly, before he could stop himself.

Glorfindel looked surprised. “Of course not.”

Violet eyes and no glow were startling and unique, but not unnatural. He did not voice his thoughts, seeing the elf's insecurities about his unique features. Legolas's eyes rested on Elrohir, a question on his lips. He stifled it, a determined expression replacing his previously young-looking and slightly lost one.

“We need to get moving. I will follow in the trees.” he said.

Glorfindel nodded and spurred his horse, racing along the barely visible path. Above him, Legolas leapt from branch to branch, unworried as he fell slightly behind the horse's fast gait. He could catch up whenever the horse was forced to veer or slow because of close-growing trees or uneven ground. He knew where Rivendell was. Now, his main goal was to provide assistance if Glorfindel needed it.

They rode and ran in silence, great stamina being shown by the horse and assassin. The way back was faster than the way there, with the horse's energy renewed by the urgency of his rider. Legolas was the first to sense the others heading towards them. He pushed himself faster, Glorfindel pausing as the assassin appeared behind him.

“Your friends are here.” he told the Balrog Slayer.

He leapt back up into the trees. The Vanyar blinked in confusion at the action before his eyes widened with realization. Esgal did not want the other elves to know he was there. Although the Balrog Slayer did not know the mysterious fighter, he instinctively knew he was a good elf, and deserved his discretion. It was because of this that Glorfindel did not look at or mention the shadow in the treetops as a patrol of ten Rivendell warriors burst out of the foliage.

“Lord Glorfindel!” one warrior said. “You rescued him!”

“Yes.” the Vanyar said shortly. “The orcs are dead.”

He handed Elrohir off to another elf, who sped off with his fresher, less tired horse. The other elves followed suite, with Legolas as a silent shadow above them. Glorfindel was careful not look up. He could not tell if Esgal was still there, or if he had left. Unknown to the Vanyar the assassin was up in the trees above him, staying within hearing range of the elves. The pale blonde-haired elf was currently battling with himself, joy and hope warring with nerves and fear.

He could show himself. He could drop down and catch the attention of the elves. Glorfindel would explain who he was, and how he helped Elrohir. He had the Elf Lord's _acceptance_. His fears seemed to be unfounded. He _should_ reveal himself to the others. Legolas was surprised by the thought, but found himself hesitantly willing to do it.

_Glorfindel accepted me. Without explanation or questions he accepted me, despite what I look like and how well I kill. Perhaps others will as well?_

Just as Legolas was about to emerge from the shadows, a Rivendell warrior spoke in a loud, easily heard voice.

“Bloody orcs. I cannot believe they were once elves. That just goes to prove anything the Shadow touches is corrupted. I cannot wait until the Darkness is destroyed, along with everything it has created.” There was rage and utter _loathing_ in the warrior's voice, so deep and unshakable it made the hidden assassin shudder.

Legolas closed his eyes, not moving from the tree limb he stood on. Glorfindel may not have made him spill his secrets and asked about his past, but others would. Others had not seen him defend Elrohir, or witnessed the protectiveness he had over the other elf even when he was scared out of his mind. Questions would be asked, and answers would be demanded if Legolas showed himself to the warriors below him. Glorfindel's support would not be enough to keep them from being suspicious. And suspicious people dug and dug into a person and their past, exposing them until all of their secrets were ripped from them.

The elf studied the warrior that had spoken. He saw bitter hatred and great, overlaying anger in his expression. He would be one of those suspicious people. He was the type to hate all things that were even slightly touched by Shadow.

 _Who did you lose?_ The assassin asked the Rivendell elf silently. _Who was killed by the Shadow that you hate it so deeply? But it does not matter._ _I was right._ Legolas thought sadly. _Some of them will not accept me. I cannot show myself now. They are not ready._

Turning away from the Rivendell elves, the assassin vanished into the forest. He would find Glorfindel and talk to him later. But he could not reveal himself yet.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

The return to the Last Homely House transpired just as Glorfindel had predicted. Elrond rushed out in a dignified yet harried way, whisking Elrohir into the healing ward and barking orders at lesser healers as he hurried his son into the house. Glorfindel tasked himself with keeping the stubborn Elladan— his arm in a sling and his shoulder bandaged, still pale from the poison that had been purged from his veins— out of his father's way, guarding the door to the ward and stopping all of the older twin's attempts to get inside.

“Sit down, Elrondion.” the Balrog Slayer said firmly, glaring at the younger elf. “You will remain out here until your father is finished.”

“He's my brother,” Elladan snapped, harsh and angry out of fear for his brother. “I'm a trained healer! I can help!”

“You are injured yourself,” Glorfindel pointed out, not budging. “You will only get in the way.” The older twin opened his mouth to protest but the golden-haired elf cut him off. “You cannot go inside, Elladan. You know Elrond's rule. Unless it is an emergency, family members should not treat each other's injuries. Knowing the person causes great fear, and fear can lead to fatal mistakes.”

Elladan glared at him a moment longer before dropping his gaze. “I know. I just hate waiting and doing nothing.”

Glorfindel guided the twin to a chair, allowing him to collapse into it before sitting beside the younger elf. Elladan was trembling, biting his lip as he glanced repeatedly at the door out of the corner of his eye. Glorfindel hugged the twin for the first time since he was an elfling running to him after a nightmare.

“He's going to be all right,” the Vanyar soothed.

“He's been unconscious for over twelve hours,” Elladan said miserably. “Something must be wrong.”

The doors flew open before Glorfindel had to respond. Elrond walked out, face pale and tired. He caught Glorfindels' eyes and nodded once. “He's awake.” the Half-Elf said, face pale but relieved. “His leg wound has been taken care of and he has no serious head injury. He was merely in a self-induced healing trance.”

“He's okay?” Elladan asked for confirmation.

Elrond laughed, a delightful sound. “Yes. Come in.”

The twin ran into the room, his father and Glorfindel following at a slower pace. Elrohir was in a bed at the far side of the ward, leg wrapped in bandages along wit ha wrap around his head. Elladan rushed forward, squeezing his brother tightly.

“Ouch!” Elrohir winced. “Too tight!”

Elladan gave a shaky laugh but did not let go. “Don't ever do that again!”

“Do what?” the younger twin joked. “Get captured by orcs? Or accidentally fall into a healing trance because of a head wound?”

“Both. Never again.” his voice shook with barely contained emotion.

Elrohir grimaced, not from pain this time. “Sorry.”

Elrond sat beside his sons, bringing them both into his arms. “I am going to lock you in your rooms and never let you out.” The Elf Lord claimed.

The twins exchanged a glance before simultaneously groaning in an exaggerated manner.

“But Ada,” Elladan cried dramatically. “If you lock us up, we won't be able to visit Daernaneth and she'll be angry.”

“I fear losing you more than I fear your Grandmother,” Elrond said, only half-joking. He pulled back from the hug, looking at both his sons with tired eyes. “How do you keep finding such trouble?”

Seeing the very real worry in their father's voice and face, the twins sobered.

“You are not going to lose us, Ada.” Elrohir said, giving his father another hug.

They stayed together for a moment before Elrond looked at the golden-haired elf who had saved his son. “What happened, Glorfindel? How did you get him away from the orcs? Erestor told me there were almost fifty left.”

Elrohir was the only one to notice the slight hesitation before the Balrog Slayer replied.

“The orcs fought each other. Half of them wanted to torture and kill Elrohir—” the entire room winced. “—while the other half knew their master required him to be alive for ransom. By the time the two sides were finished, their numbers had been reduced to ten. They were easy enough to take care of.” The Balrog Slayer's voice was dark, eyes glinting.

Elladan and Elrond accepted his explanation, talking with and worrying over Elrohir, but the injured twin was thoughtful behind his smiles and reassurances. For some reason, Glorfindel was hiding something from them, even from Elrond. Elrohir knew that the Balrog Slayer had no intention of informing the Lord of Rivendell of whatever he was being tight-lipped about. The younger twin could tell, because whenever the golden-haired elf wanted to say something without the twins there, he would meet Elrond's eyes for a split second before looking away. This time, Glorfindel had not looked at the Elf Lord at all.

Heaviness entering his limbs, his eyes fluttering closed, Elrohir had one final thought before he let sleep claim him. _What could have possibly happened that Glorfindel won't tell Ada? What secret could be so great that he won't tell his Lord and close friend?_

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Far away in Lothlorien, Galadriel breathed a sigh of relief. “They are all safe.” she told Celeborn. “My vision came to pass, but Glorfindel appears to have been able to save young Elrohir.”

Her husband looked at her, his normally stoic expression replaced by one of slight confusion. ““Appears”? You do not know?”

The beautiful Elf Lady, looked down at her mirror, a frown marring her features. “Shortly after Elrohir was captured, his future was hidden from me. He was not covered by shadow or light, he was merely... not there. It was like trying to see something through a wall made of stone. Not long after Elrohir's rescue, he reappeared once more. It was almost like something he interacted with was blocking my Sight.”

“Only Great Powers of Darkness can block you.” Celeborn said in a foreboding tone.

Galadriel shook her head. “No. They cannot block me. They can only hide themselves ins hadow to obscure my sight. That is why I cannot see in Minas Morgul, Mordor, or Dol Guldur. The Shadow cloaks its secrets, obscuring my sight, but it cannot block me like this. If I were not watching over Elrohir, I would not have known about this anomaly. But... there is one thing I can sense.”

Galadriel turned, looking at her husband with wise blue eyes. “Someone is watching over the elves. We have a great ally in the forests. When the time is right, we will not find him. He will come to us.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Eight: "He is Coming"**

_Third Age 2901 (110 years ago...)_

_One more step. One more step. One more step._

Legolas could hear the blood pounding in his ears and feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. His breathing was harsh and loud in the silence of the forest around him, and his feet stumbled every few steps. Around him the trees cried out wordlessly in worry, unable to assist as he struggled to walk beneath their boughs. Blood dripped between the assassin's pale fingers, which were clutched over the wound on his side.

Legolas was in a forest in the Shire. He had tracked a pack of wayward orcs to the peaceful place and had taken them out. The battle had been easy enough, the orcs falling to his blades faster than they could retaliate. However, the assassin had failed to notice that one of the orcs was a Berserker. When he had turned to leave, the Berserker had stabbed him with a dagger before dying, using his last bit of strength to harm the one who had slain him.

Now Legolas was stumbling through the forest, seriously wounded, with no help nearby. He was barely moving, forcing himself to go forward step by step. He did not know where he was headed, too tired to pay attention to where he was going. He just kept moving forward, forcing himself not to stop.

_One more step. One more step. One more step._

He had not been stabbed in an inherently fatal place, and the wound itself was not that deep. However, it was bleeding heavily, staining the cloak he had pressed over it red. Legolas had a feeling the Berserker had a poison on the dagger that prevented blood from clotting. He just kept bleeding. And bleeding.

 _One more step._ He told himself. _Just one more step. One step at a time. I cannot stop. I need to get to help..._

The assassin stumbled another time, black spots dancing across his vision as dizziness overcame him. He breathed rapidly, eyes half closed, and simply lay there on the ground. He was so tired. He did not have the energy to move. Weakness that he had never felt before washed over Legolas and his eyes slipped fully closed, the worried calls of the trees fading into nothingness. Heaviness pressed down on the elf, replacing the lightheaded feeling he had felt, and all awareness fled.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

It was dark, and Legolas was afraid. It was a fear born of confusion, like an instinct in the back of his mind. Something was wrong. He was in a blackness he had never experienced before, the kind that seemed to press down on and suffocate him all at once. No matter what he tried he could not gain awareness of any of his senses. He had no hearing, touch, smell, or taste here. Only the endless, confusing blackness.

Time did not move and nothing seemed to change, but he realized he had been in the darkness longer than he was aware, thoughts only just starting to reenter his mind. Soon after he recalled that he had been injured. He must be unconscious. No, no longer unconscious. He was beginning to wake, his thoughts returning like someone waking from a heavy sleep.

Senses returned, the first being touch, and a dull, aching pain let itself be known. He winced internally, still trapped between oblivion and awareness. Legolas's arm twitched, reacting sluggishly. His limbs felt heavy and stiff, unwilling to follow his mind's commands. He had to get up. He needed to know what had happened. He had been bleeding to death, but now he was not. What had happened?

Legolas's fingers brushed against his side, feeling the bump of bandages under his shirt. Someone had found him, and treated his wounds. Where they still there? The elf forced his eyes open. They had been closed? He had not even noticed. He winced as bright light blinded him, blinking fiercely. His vision quickly adjusted, revealing a light blue sky, broken by the green leaves above. He was still in the forest then. A quick scan of the area revealed no one nearby. Legolas briefly wondered if this was how some of the people he rescued felt when they woke up alone.

The elf touched the carefully wrapped bandages again. Should he move and try to find the one who helped him? His ability to tell if someone was near was severely hindered at the moment, dizziness and exhaustion making him tired and slow. He sat up, grimacing, and his violet eyes swept the area once more. He spotted movement, still quite far away, but he did not tense in the slightest. He recognized the two small— one child-sized and the other even smaller than that— heading towards him. Two hobbits had found him.

Legolas liked hobbits, though he had never interacted with one before. They were a cheerful, simple yet complex people, content with the lives of farming, fishing, and eating they lived. They did not seek power, or manipulate each other for personal gain. And although they were against what they called "queerness" and few wished to leave the Shire and have an adventure, they were a good, welcoming people. They loved each other, food, and growing things, though they sometimes liked to spread rumors and tall tales, not out of malice but faulty communication and a love for gossip.

They were the one race in Middle-earth that truly remained untouched by the Shadow, the orcs and other servants of Sauron not bothering with the far-off Shire. Legolas hoped that the Shadow kept away from the peaceful realm for as long as possible. That was why he had hunted those orcs so fiercely. They had ended up on the wrong side of the river near Bree, and had unintentionally been headed towards the oblivious hobbits. The average hobbit truly was oblivious in many things, and Legolas wanted to keep them from knowing the pain of battle and the fear of the Shadow for a little while longer.

That was why he did not tense when he saw the two hobbits heading towards him. Not only did they already help him, but they had the cheerful, innocent auras of those who did not seek something in return for their assistance. They were the best of hobbits, through and through. Legoals could tell.

The sound of a female voice, raised in scolding, reached the elf's ears. "I told you to stay with him. Why must you wander off the moment my back is turned?"

"There was a bird, Mama." the young voice of a child— a boy— replied. "I just wanted to see her nest."

His mother sighed. "You favor the Took blood within you, my son. I must be less Tookish than I once was. You've given me more grey hairs—" The hobbit and her son entered the clearing, the mother spotting Legolas. "Ah! You're awake!"

The child squeaked and hid behind his mother's skirt. The mother ignored her son's shyness, rushing forward with the tiny hobbit clinging to her dress. She set down her basket, fussing about Legolas and reminding the elf of a worried hen.

"We found you wounded here. Its a relief you are awake. I was just off getting more herbs to help your blood clot. Nasty wound you have. Is it paining you? How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine madame," Legolas said . "Thank you for helping me."

"It was no problem at all, dear." she said.. Oh! How rude of me. I haven't even told you our names. I am Belladonna Took. And this little one is Bilbo Baggins, my son."

The tiny Halfling clung to his mother's skirt, peering around her leg at Legolas before hiding once more. Legolas smiled kindly at the boy. The tiny hobbit put his thumb in his mouth, sucking it anxiously.

"Hello, little one." the elf greeted. "My name is Esgal."

Bilbo took the thumb out of his mouth. "Hello. Its nice to meet you." the appendage returned to its previous position.

"Stop that," Belladonna chided, taking out the thumb and frowning. "You'll make your teeth grow in crooked. You'll never get a fine lady if you have an odd smile."

"I don't want a lady," Bilbo proclaimed. "Girls are weird. And loud. And throw temper tantrums. And wear frilly things. And—"

"Need I remind you that I am a girl?" Belladonna asked, expression stern but with a hint of amusement.

Bilbo did not notice the teasing in her expression or voice. He shook his head rapidly, hands clapped over his mouth and eyes wide. "Not you, Mama! You're nice and make wonderful berry pies and aren't loud or strange at all!" The hobbit looked at Legolas, a contemplative look on his face. "Gandalf says that Elves glow in the dark," Bilbo said curiously, changing the discussion so quickly the elf was taken aback. "But you don't."

"I am suppressing my glow," Legolas explained.

He mentally berated himself for not realizing his hood was down, his face, ears and hair revealed. He had gotten used to not wearing the hood and cloth over his face when he was with Glorfindel, enough that he had not noticed that his features were exposed. At least the hobbit-child was commenting on his lack of a glow, not his glowing violet eyes.

"Why?"

"In my... line of work, I sometimes need to hide, and that is hard to do when I glow in the dark."

"What do you do?"

"I kill monsters."

Bilbo's eyes grew huge. "Really?"

"Yes, really." Legolas said, lips twitching.

Before he knew it, the tiny boy was sitting on his right leg looking up at him with wide, excited eyes. "Can you tell me a story about one of your battles?"

The assassin hesitated a moment, looking at Belladonna for permission. She only nodded, and Legolas was touched that she trusted him enough to not scare her child with his tales of battle. The elf told Bilbo a child-friendly version of one of his many battles with orcs. He kept out the blood and gore, along with the true terrifying presence orcs could have, but was also careful not to glorify or make light of the battle. War and adventures were not all fun and games, and Legolas believed that children should be at least partially aware of that. When they were older and had adventures of their own, they would not be caught off guard.

While he was speaking, Belladonna undid his bandages, putting a herb-paste over the thin wound before re-wrapping it. Legolas barely noticed her, so deeply he was focused on telling the attentive Bilbo the tale. By the time the story was finished the excitement in Bilbo's gaze had been replaced by awe and a slight glimmer of understanding.

"You've fought a lot of monsters haven't you?" he said perceptively. "You're very brave."

Legolas blinked, stunned by the praise. "I do not think so. This is just what I do."

Bilbo's expression said he did not believe him. Then his attention shifted, as the minds of children often do. "Do your elf friends think you not having a glow is odd?"

"Bilbo!" Belladonna said sharply.

The child looked confused by her tone. "I'm just asking. Cause whenever someone doesn't act like a respectable hobbit here, other people don't really like them sometimes. I was wondering if the elves don't like differences too."

During Bilbo's short speech, Legolas was debating whether to tell the truth or not. He looked again at Belladonna, who stared back with open concern in her eyes. Hobbits really were amazing creatures. They were so simple and complex all at once, content with their lives like few others could be. And here was two particular hobbits who he had just met, rescuing him and welcoming him, accepting him like an old friend.

"I do not interact with many elves. They are not even aware that I exist," the assassin said at last. "One, Lord Glorfindel, accepts me for who and what I am, but I know many others will not."

Belladonna's eyes lit up with a deep understanding, and she put a hand on his arm. "I will not tell anyone I met you," the hobbit promised softly. "I can tell you truly do not wish to be known by your Elven kin."

"You are right," Legolas admitted. "I am less against meeting certain elves, but I am still not quite comfortable with the idea."

His friendship with Glorfindel had helped Legolas better understand elves and their heritage. Their friendship had been a slow-building one, the assassin staying up in the treetops and talking to Glorfindel for their first few meetings. The Balrog Slayer had given him his space, sitting beneath the tree and talking up to him, without requesting personal information or demanding answers out of him. It had been nice, just to talk about the stars, forests, family and friends. Then, one day, Legolas had found himself sitting beside the Vanyar. He was not sure how it had happened, but a few meetings of talking and experiencing Glorfindel's open, cheerful nature had let the assassin unknowingly trust him. It had taken a while, but the trust had been formed. However, Legolas was not ready to reveal himself yet. Some deep instinct kept him from accepting Glorfindel's invitation to officially visit Rivendell. Or should he say, someone did.

He had spotted the elf who hated all things touched by the Shadow a few times while sneaking about the Hidden Valley, and had heard a couple stories from Glorfindel. Apparently the elf, Amulug, had lost his wife, brother, sister, and parents many hundreds of years ago. They had been killed by the Witch-King, in an unexpected attack between Lothlorien and Rivendell. That was back when the Shadow was just starting to return, only a tiny whisper in the back of the minds of elves in the two Ring-protected realms. The family had been in the misty Mountains when they were ambushed by orcs. Amulug had only survived because he fell off a small cliff, blacking out when he hit the bottom. When he awoke, the elves had found him, and his family was gone.

Rather than fade, Amulug became vengeful, seeking out and destroying any orcs or remnants of the Shadow he came across. This occasionally put patrols he was in in unnecessary danger. Yet the elves could not deny him his vengeance. The twin sons of Elrond had had a similar mission long ago. The only difference was that Amulug did not hunt orcs, and happened to become bloodthirsty and wild whenever he saw the creatures. He attacked any who were touched by or followed the Shadow with a extreme prejudice, not waiting for explanations or heeding orders to stand down.

Despite this, a few Rivendell warriors and even a couple from Lothlorien were willing to follow the elf without question. While he was twisted and possibly not right in the head, Amulug was also charismatic. Hearing about him, Legolas was reminded of Drust and his goons in Blue Harbor. If the warriors were human, they would have been cast out of the city, but they were elves, and they lived in Rivendell. Even with the leniency of Lord Elrond, the relationship between the general populace and those warriors were strained. For that reason and the still-lingering nerves about rejection, Legolas would avoid the elves for now.

"Don't worry about Bilbo. If he tells anyone they will just think it's a child's imagination." Belladonna added, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Bilbo pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I won't tell anyone!" he said earnestly. "I promise."

Looking at his small, genuine face, Legolas could not help but believe him.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Gandalf the Grey was in no hurry to get to Mirkwood. There was no urgent message to deliver, no battles to fight, and no impending doom to warn about. He was merely going to the darkened forest to visit old friends, and see how the Royal Family was faring. Thranduil's hatred of and drive to destroy the Shadow had not wavered and he and his kin were still intolerant of most non-elven strangers, but the King was becoming less quick to anger and letting his kingly mask drop at times. He still never laughed, sometimes woke with nightmares, and was rather more brusque than he had once been, but not as badly as he had suffered for the past three hundred seventy years.

The Wizard did not know whether that meant the Sindar was healing. He hoped that was the case. Gandalf was only aware of the changes in Thranduil because Tollui, one of Thranduil's friends and advisers, had been keeping him and Elrond updated on any changes. The adviser never revealed any confidential or personal information, only basic, truthful facts about his leader's health. So he decided to go to Mirkwood, to see his old friend. Because that was what friends did, after all. They worried and checked up on each other.

The entrance to the palace was just ahead. Gandalf was surprised that he had not had any encounters with Spiders or orcs on his journey. He had presumed he would be attacked at least once on his journey. Perhaps the elves were winning against the Darkness more than they thought. Fael and another elf— Heled, the Wizard believed his name was— met him just inside the gate.

"Well met, Mithrandir." Fael greeted, bowing slightly. "A patrol told us you were coming."

"Did they now? I didn't even notice them. Every time I travel to Mirkwood, the Wood-Elves are even better at hiding in the trees than the last time." Gandalf said.

Although his lips twitched, the Prince spoke formally. "The King is currently in a meeting with his advisers and will greet you later."

"That is suitable," Gandalf replied. "I am in no hurry."

Now that formalities were over with, Fael's face morphed from serious into an easy smile. "It is truly good to see you, Mithrandir. You just missed lunch but you must be hungry after your journey. I'm sure Cook will make something for you."

"That would be greatly appreciated." the Wizard said.

He dismounted from his horse, staff in one hand and the reins in the other. Heled took the reins from the Istar, guiding the grey horse to the stalls. Fael walked at Gandalf's side, the Wizard's staff tapping on the floor with ever other step.

"How are you, Fael?" Gandalf questioned the Prince. "Have you pulled any pranks on your siblings lately?"

Fael smiled the tiniest bit, though a sadness had entered his gaze. "No. I have not. I think I would like to, honestly, but my siblings are less easygoing than they once were. If I pranked Aglar or Megilag I would be punished severely. Bereneth would snap at me and storm off. Barhad would probably laugh. It's just..." he sighed, looking up at the stone ceiling above them. "Pranking just doesn't interest me anymore."

Gandalf placed a hand on the young-yet-old ellon beside him, squeezing his shoulder gently. "I hope you can find happiness again someday, Fael. You and your family."

"We'll see," Fael murmured, and his eyes were distant. "I met Radagast a few hundred years ago. During the major flood I fell into the river."

The Wizard waited patiently for him to continue, wondering why the Prince had brought up his fellow Istar.

"I was drowning. Dying." the silver-haired elf said darkly. "I blacked out before Radagast pulled me out. But... before I lost consciousness... I thought I saw Legolas. He was coming towards me, reaching for my hands as if to pull me to safety... but it turns out I was just imagining things."

"Perhaps not." Gandalf said. "When one is near death, they sometimes see the spirits of loved ones who passed on. Then again, you mind may have been seeing what it wished, when in reality Radagast was the one reaching for you." the Wizard frowned. "Though I cannot imagine the Brown Wizard jumping into a flooded river to save people. Animals, yes, but not elves."

"Radagast has changed since he rescued me," Fael told him. "He's much more helpful in our fight against the Shadow. He tells us where patrols are, has given a few outlying villages small protection spells, and has even trained a couple animals to send warnings if orcs are coming. And guide elves through the forest if they are lost "

The Grey Wizard's eyebrows crept up his forehead. "Oh really? I am happy to hear that my fellow Wizard is taking a more active stance in the fight against the Darkness. I was beginning to worry he would abandon our mission."

Fael nodded absently in agreement, mind far away. "I remember seeing Radagast once when I was younger. He seems more... _determined_ nowadays. It's like he found the motivation to fight. He still does the little things for the forest and animals, of course. I also think he's trying to learn more powerful magic."

"I will go visit him once I am done here then." Gandalf said. "If he is trying to learn new spells, I will assist him."

The Grey Wizard was very pleased that Radagast was finally following their mission. The Brown Wizard was his close friend, but he was sometimes skittish at best, terrified at worst when he encountered the Shadow. Now it seemed that Radagast's fear was gone, replaced by a drive to openly fight the servants of Sauron. Gandalf wondered what had changed his fellow Wizard.

The Elf Prince and Grey Wizard entered the kitchen, where Fael spoke quickly to the cook. The elleth nodded once before barking orders at her underlings, who scurried about putting together a suitable meal for the Istar. Fael and Gandalf went into the small dining room to the side of the kitchen, meant for general meals. They sat down at the table.

"How was your journey?" the green-eyed elf asked. "Did you run into any trouble?"

"Surprisingly, no." Gandalf said. ""My trip through Mirkwood was wonderfully uneventful."

"There are less orc and Spider attacks than many presume." Fael replied as if he had read the Wizard's secret thoughts. "Someone is still killing off many servants of the Shadow, and we have no idea who or what he is. We would not even know someone was out there if not for the dead enemy patrols we find."

"It seems someone is watching over this forest," Gandalf mused. "It is odd that he does not reveal himself to you." he thought about what the Prince had said. "You said that you find "patrols". What size patrols do you speak of?"

"Twenty, thirty orcs is the average." Fael said with a shrug.

Gandalf looked at him in shock. "You said "he" killed orcs, not "they". A single person has slain multiple, good-sized patrols of orcs by himself?!"

"Yes." the Prince said. "We were shocked too, the first time we studied the corpses. The footprints, scuff marks, and wounds suggest a single person killed all of the orcs in the patrols. Whoever he is, he is a powerful warrior."

"Indeed." the Wizard mused, lighting his pipe.

Fael wrinkled his nose. "Must you smoke that in here?"

Gandalf sighed and put out the pipe, looking down at it almost mournfully. "Forgive my thoughtlessness. I forget how greatly elves dislike smoking."

"It smells terrible. And it burns my eyes." Fael said bluntly, though he had a small grin on his face.

The cook entered the room, frowning as the tiny hint of smoke-smell reached her nose. She glanced at Gandalf disapprovingly, tutted once, and set a tray with tea and stew in front of Gandalf. There was enough for Fael and Gandalf both. Plus three hobbits, four dwarves, and half of the Royal household. Cook always did try to fatten up people who looked too thin. And both the Wizard and the Prince were on that list.

"Thank you." Fael said gratefully.

The cook bowed and left them, eager to get away from the smell her sensitive nose could still pick up. Fael poured a cup of tea and turned back to Gandalf.

"I cannot understand how you can smoke such disgusting gunk, Mithrandir." the Prince said gravely, a hint of his old mischief appearing in his sparkling green eyes.

"Hmph." Gandalf huffed. "Elves can know and understand many things. The fineness of Longbottom Leaf is not one of them."

Fael laughed, a musical sound, reaching forward as if to give the cup to the Wizard...

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Far away in Minas Morgul, the Witch-King prowled through the dark halls of his tower. He felt more at home in the dark place than he had ever felt, the Darkness in each stone growing stronger than It had ever been. For a while, almost two hundred years ago, he had been worried that the Darkness was fading. Each time he had left Minas Morgul, he had returned to find the Darkness that cloaked the tower in various states of unrest and shock. The Nazgûl Lord had feared something was wrong with his tower's power, that some form of Light was sabotaging it. His fears had been unfounded.

One hundred ninety years ago, he had returned to Minas Morgul to find the Darkness stronger than ever. Rather than rippling and whispering through the halls, it pulsed and raged, bringing a heavy darkness over the tower that would cause the weaker Free People of Middle-earth to collapse with plagues of Shadow and nightmares, and the stronger to quail and tremble. The very stones of the tower exuded Darkness like an impenetrable fog. Only lamps made from the Witch-King's Dark Magic could penetrate the gloom and darkness, but even then, the halls were almost as dark as a starless, moonless night.

Not only was the tower darker and more powerful, but its inhabitants were as well. Orcs and goblins born and residing in Minas Morgul were fiercer, stronger, and even more savage. Their eyes glittered with fragments of the darkness, their fangs longer and their claws sharper than any orcs the Nazgûl Lord had ever seen. Every orc that passed through the tower was affected, coming out more evil than they were when they went in, if that was possible.

The Witch-King had been too busy carrying out his master's orders to investigate the change in the Darkness, and explore it himself. But there were no orcs to observe, villages to raze, or people to hunt today. Which meant he could finally sate his curiosity, and try to understand the Darkness. He sat in his room at the top of the tower, Dark Spells and words of Evil dripping from his tongue. He did not have a body, but his consciousness shifted out of his cloaked form, touching the Darkness carefully. He had to tread with caution, for even though he worshiped and was a creature of the Shadow, the Darkness may still attack and try to destroy him. Prepared to back out quickly if need be, the Witch-King entered the Darkness around him. Chaos, rage, bitterness, lust, strife, cruelty, and savage glee rushed through him, the emotions and essence of the Darkness touching whatever remained of his mutilated soul.

The Darkness was almost content, happy and eager, its energy roaring and pulsing in waves of evil so great the Witch-King almost lost the connection from shock. How could the Darkness be so powerful? It was wonderful and exhilarating, yes, but It should not have this _much_. Curious, the Witch-King tried to trace the waves of Darkness, searching for Its source. It had to have a source, because the Darkness could not be this great. It had never been this potent, not even when Minas Morgul had been at its greatest.

There! There was something there, hidden within the Darkness of Minas Morgul. The tower's Darkness cloaked and caressed the other like a shield of energy, loving what It hid yet hating It at the same time. The Witch-King approached the epicenter of the storm of evil with great care. He could sense the Darkness's protectiveness of what It hid. To his surprise, the Darkness did not try to hide what powered It. Instead, It moved aside, letting him have a clear sense of it.

"It" was another Darkness, trapped within an odd shield. The Nazgûl Lord could sense the power and ancient energy that created the shield, keeping the other Darkness imprisoned. The shield was so strong and impenetrable that the Witch-King was confused. How could Minas Morgul's Darkness reach this other power? He skimmed along the edge of the shield, careful not to touch it. It was too ancient and great, and he knew if he touched it he would burn to ash, Ringwraith or not.

It was then he "saw" it. A tiny hairline crack was in the shield, the other Darkness leaking from it like water dripped from a cracked dam. The Witch-King could sense the pressure behind that spot, he other Darkness pushing against the shield with all Its might. Yet It was still trapped, and that angered It. The Nazgûl Lord could sense Its wrath. It wanted freedom. It wanted _out_.

Its need was so great that the Witch-King touched the crack, without a second thought. The other Darkness focused on him, all of Its massive attention pressing down on the Ringwraith. It reeled and roared, surging under his hand. Then, using the Witch-King's presence as a focus point, It slammed into the crack. The crack did not widen, but the witch-King felt some more of the other Darkness come through. It plowed into him like a battering ram, and would have sent his consciousness flying if It had not kept him in place. The Darkness of the Shadow covered his vision, and a deep, cruel voice spoke in his mind.

_**You are mine.** _

The Witch-King smiled, recognizing the Darkness he had found, and laughed even as his will was overcome.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

...The teacup slipped from Fael's limp fingers, shattering on the stone floor. Gandalf flinched at the noise, clutching his staff with one hand and his heart with the other.

"I have never known an elf to be clumsy, Prince Fael," he chided, looking down at the shards of glass on the floor.

" _He is coming._ " Fael said.

Gandalf paused mid-step, whirling around to raise his eyebrows at the Prince. "What was that?"

Fael's expression cleared and he frowned at the Wizard. "What was what?"

"You just said "He is coming"." Gandalf said sternly. "Who— or what— were you speaking of?"

Fael looked at him like he was mad. "I do not recall saying anything. Are you sure you haven't been smoking too much pipeweed Mithrandir?"

The Wizard did not return his smile.

"Hmm." Gandalf only hummed vaguely in response.

He let it go, and the rest of his visit went without incident. But Gandalf never forgot the words, or the the haunting, ominous tone in which they had been spoken. Something very wrong and terrible had awoken in the world, and as the years passed and the Wizard had time to mull over the unexpected phrase and identify it for the warning that it was.

_He is coming._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters, places, or events in this story.
> 
> The Mirkwood Royal Family:  
> Thranduil: Elvenking of Mirkwood  
> Luineth: Queen of Mirkwood, Thranduil's wife, Legolas's mother  
> Aglar: Thranduil and Luineth's oldest son, Crown Prince of Mirkwood  
> Hannel: Thranduil and Luineth's oldest daughter, second child  
> Megilag: Second son, third child  
> Barhad: Third son, older twin, fourth child  
> Bereneth: Second daughter, younger twin, fifth child  
> Fael: Fourth son, sixth child*  
> Legolas: Fifth son, seventh and youngest child  
> *Note: Legolas is 2,100 years younger than Fael


End file.
